Nous
by S. McCoy
Summary: Ariadne has tried to forget the pure creation of the dream world and content herself with her studies, but once you've been involved in something as singular as an inception, you become a commodity. One that some people wouldn't mind killing for.
1. Chapter 1

_I do not own any aspect of Inception. ~M._

It's been four months and Ariadne still feels jetlagged. She's supposed to be one term away from graduation, but she can't seem to force her grades stop dropping, and she can't seem to force her mind to care. She sits in class, in cafes, in her dingy box of an apartment and tries to focus on the names and structures of the greatest minds in her field, but she's realizing that the unyielding parameters of reality are closing in on her, and she's not sure she'll ever be able to create anything of value within them again.

She hasn't seen anyone from the team since Arthur appeared at the door of the hotel room he had reserved for her first evening in Los Angeles. She had been a dead man walking all that afternoon—plane to terminal, to baggage claim, to taxi, to hotel so extravagant she was scared her shoes would scuff the tile. Her lips had smiled and her voice had murmured and her fingers had handed over a credit card with a fake name, while her mind beat out a mantra of _what happened? What's next? What happened? What's next? What happened?_

She'd barely had time to drop her duffel and tip her bishop over on the nightstand before she heard the knock on the door. Her hands had shaken as she re-pocketed the chess piece and peered through the peephole. It had surprised her, not because she hadn't expected them to check up on her, but because she hadn't seen him at all since customs. She thought she was better at knowing when she was being followed.

She'd invited Arthur in and he'd sat in the chair opposite her bed and rolled through a series of questions—was she alright? Did she want to talk through any of it? Did she have any plans now that she'd made nearly enough money to retire?

Yes she was alright, the autopilot side of her had answered. No she didn't want to talk through any of it. Yes, her plans were to book a flight back to Paris and finish her schooling.

He'd given her a small, consolatory smile that didn't crinkle the corners of his eyes as he'd reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a boarding pass with her name on it.

"It was an absolute pleasure working with you," he had said at her door, his fingers brushing over the back of her hand. "If you have any trouble readapting, please give me a call."

She's reached for her phone so many times since then. First when she got back to school and discovered that Professor Miles had resigned from his position to "Spend more time with his family," then when dreams of the inception sent her reaching for her bishop, then when the dreams wouldn't stop. She's never been one to have repeat dreams, never been one to revisit the same location or reenact the same plot, but ever since she landed back on French soil all her dreams were tainted with the shooting in the downtown streets, the kiss in the hotel, the snow on the mountain, the weight of Fischer's body hoisted on the porch edge over and over and over until she can't help but wonder if the doubt that Dom had planted in Moll's mind has somehow taken root in her own.

She's not quite sure what keeps her from calling. She's not quite sure what it is that poises her thumb over the glowing green 'Send' button and won't allow her to press down. Maybe it's the fear of weakness. After all, none of the others had looked haunted after awakening in the plane cabin. In her hotel room Arthur had appeared, at best, slightly tired and, at worst, altogether nonchalant. It had been a job. An emotional rollercoaster, perhaps, but a job nonetheless. He knew it, the others knew it, and she would be damned if she couldn't at least throw up the pretense that she knew it as well.

Maybe it's fear that Arthur will want her help hacking another mind.

Maybe it's fear that he won't.

She rubs the heels of her palms against her eye sockets and looks down at her computer screen. Her essay on the Design Methodology Movement—twenty to twenty-five pages, due tomorrow—is all of two hundred words long and she's running out of things to say. The library's too loud and her chair is too uncomfortable and the view from the window is too uninspiring to make this into anything other than a truly hellish afternoon.

And then a man sits down across the table from her.

The tables are small, square, two-chaired, and there are at least half a dozen vacant ones within thirty steps of Ariadne's seat, so she can't help but wonder what the hell he's doing at hers. He appears without books, or a bag, or any evidence that he is here for any purpose other than to multiply the agony of her essay writing. His hair is oily, his khakis are wrinkled, and his dress shirt looks faded and thin. He's got the sunken eyes and the nervous jitter of a meth addict, and she begins to wonder if she should call campus security and get him escorted out.

Somewhere in her thought process she makes the mistake of making eye contact with him, and he leans forward far enough that she can smell how long it's been since his last shower.

"Hello," he says.

She looks pointedly at her computer screen and hopes he's lucid enough to take the hint.

"You an architecture major?" he asks, twisting his head to read the spines of the book mountain she's built beside her computer.

She channels Gandhi and the Dalai Lama and her high school yoga teacher.

"Ever designed anything really crazy?"

_Yes,_ she thinks to herself. _You wouldn't even be able to wrap your mind around the things I've created._

She glances down to where her messenger bag is slouched against a foot of her chair. She's kept drawings of all of it—every dream level, every maze, every Penrose step. She keeps them with her to keep her sane, to remind her that she was the architect, the creator. She keeps them with her because they help smother the doubts that maybe she is on the wrong side of the looking glass.

When she looks up she sees that his eyes have followed hers over the edge of the table and down to her bag. She kicks it under her seat and works her foot through the shoulder strap for extra security.

He licks his lips.

Her cell phone is wedged in between the pile of books and her keyboard, but she's never bothered to add the campus security number to her contacts list. Slowly, so he doesn't startle and do something crazy, she clicks the icon for her web browser and types the university's URL into the address bar.

Something flashes in the corner of her eye, and she looks up as his body darts forward and the knife in his hand whips towards her throat.

The crack of his chair hitting the floor is closely followed by the sound of hers. Both are muffled by her scream and by the blood pounding in her ears.

She scrambles away from him, in between the maze of tables and chairs and confused looking university students who are trying to piece together the mystery of the young woman scrambling over their laps.

Her neck cranes to see why no one else is screaming and running. She can't see him anywhere. She panics in the moment before she finally spots him back by her table. He's got her bag in his hands, and as he empties the collection of her doodles, sketches, and notes onto the tabletop and pours over them, she begins to wonder just what the hell is going on.

She opens her eyes.

The sun's down and the street lights are bright and cheery on the other side of the window glass. She looks around the room to find that she's the last patron left in this corner of the library and that, impressively, no one stole her laptop while she was asleep. She reaches across the table for her water bottle to try to clear some of the fog from her tired mind as her cell phone vibrates. She realizes that's probably what woke her up in the first place.

She picks up the phone, ready to pile thanks on whoever just saved her from her accidental naptime. The hairs on the back of her neck prickle as she sees Arthur's name on the screen.

"Hello?"

"Where are you?"

"What?"

He takes a deep breath. She can almost feel the tug of it through the receiver. "I'm standing outside your apartment and you aren't here. I need you to tell me where you are."

"I'm at the university's library. What's going on?"

"The library," she hears him repeat to someone else before his voice becomes clear again. "Which floor and where?"

"Third floor, west side, where all the study tables are. Arthur, why are you at my apartment? What's happening?"

"Listen, I will explain everything when there is time for it, but for now I need you to stay exactly where you are until we come and get you, understand? We'll be there in seven minutes."

"Six," says a muffled voice that sounds like Eames'.

"Six," Arthur repeats. "Are you alone?"

"Yes?" she says, mind swimming. "I'm the only person in the room, anyway."

"Good. Stay where you are, we'll be there soon."

The line clicks dead and she feels sick and shaky. She can't get her bishop out of her pocket fast enough. She sets it on the table and tips it over and watches as it lands just the way she modified it to.

She picks it back up, begins to slide it back into her pocket, and almost loses her lunch all over her lap.

On her right arm, over the translucent skin above her wrist, sits the tiny red welt of a fresh needle prick.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks so much to everyone who posted reviews; they are greatly appreciated. This chapter is a bit of an information dump, but I figured it would be better to get it all out of the way at once._

_I still do not own any aspect of Inception. _

_~M._

It takes her all six minutes to get up, get her bag, and get her shit together.

She jolts at the first tap of shoe on tile. Arthur could pass for a member of the Italian mafia with his dark suit, gelled hair, and narrowed eyes. He only looks at her once in the time it takes him to cross the floor and the glance is brief—just enough to affirm that she is still standing where she said she'd be standing before he's back to scanning the room.

"We've got to go," he says in one breath, and in the next, "What's wrong?"

He's quicker than she is. She glances at her wrist, trying to dig past the emotions and down to the solid words, and he catches it in his hand, brushing his thumb over the needle mark.

"Shit," he breathes, tightening his grip and pulling her out of the room and down the stairs.

The floors fly past her, then the entryway, and then Arthur is holding open a car door for her and guiding her inside.

He slides in beside her and barks, "Drive," and she knows that the back of the head and shoulders perched in the driver's seat belong to Eames.

"Tell us what happened," Arthur says, catching her wrist again and running his fingers over the puncture.

"I don't know what happened."

"Something happened?" Eames asks without turning. "Also: hello again, Ariadne."

"We were late; she's been put under," Arthur says before softening his voice. "I need you to tell me everything you remember from the dream."

"I don't"—she squeezes her eyes shut and fights to block out the panic and the car ride and the appearance of two men she hasn't heard from in months and everything other than the shadowy memories of the afternoon—"I was sitting in the library. A man came and sat down next to me, asked me about my major, and pulled out a knife. I ran. He grabbed my book bag and started looking through my sketches. Then you called and I woke up."

"The sketches in your bag, they were dreamscapes from the Fischer job, weren't they?" Arthur asks.

"Yes."

"And can you tell me what the man looked like?"

"Brown hair, brown eyes, kind of had a twitchy tick going on. He wasn't much for hygiene, either."

"Nash," Arthur says.

"Nash?" Eames repeats. "Nash, who you said was pushing up daisies? That Nash?"

"I said he was being turned over to Cobol the last we heard, I never said he'd died."

"Maybe so, but since when have those two things not been synonymous?"

"Listen," Ariadne says before Arthur can offer a retort. "I need one of you to tell me what the hell is going on here and why we just passed a sign for the airport."

"Have you heard of Cobol Engineering?" Arthur asks her.

"Maybe?"

"Seven months ago Dom and I were hired by their CEO to do an extraction. They needed information on an expansion program that one of their competitors was developing, information that only one man possessed: Saito."

"What?" She's not sure how many more times she can stand to have her world turned upside down today. Her fingers itch with the need to reach for her totem, but there's nowhere to tip it, and she doesn't want to appear even weaker than she already has.

"Dom wouldn't build for me, so we had to hire an architect. Unfortunately, the only one available was Nash—a man who's only real skill is half-assing structures and selling them to the highest bidder. We had him build us a dream within a dream, but Nash screwed up and left us without anything to deliver to Cobol. Dom told me he would square things with them, but as you may have noticed, what Dom says will happen and what actually happens are never quite equivalent."

"Wait," she says. "So if Nash was working with you guys, how the hell did he end up in my dream?"

"He ratted us out to Saito, who turned him over to Cobol. He should have been a dead man at that point, but I guess they found a better use for him."

"But why send him after me? And how the hell did you two get sucked into this?"

"Time to get out, loves," Eames says as he cuts the engine, and Ariadne realizes she didn't notice when they left the street and entered the parking garage.

"You still haven't told me where we're going," she reminds them.

"Caracas," Arthur says as he materializes outside her window to open the car door for her. "And I'm sorry to say I can't tell you much more until we're off the plane, walls having ears and all that."

She steps out of the vehicle and adjusts the strap on her messenger bag and realizes that she is about to fly half way round the world with only a sack of school supplies and the clothes on her back. She realizes that she hasn't quite stopped shaking from the sight of the needle prick in her wrist, and she realizes that, for the first time in four months, she feels like the walls of her world aren't closing in around her.

* * *

She wakes up gasping.

She doesn't know where she is at first, because the light is too soft for the library, and her body's too contorted for her bedroom. She tries to stand, and discovers that someone is holding her in her seat.

"Hey, it's okay, it's okay." The words rush over her soft and familiar. "Look at me, you're okay."

Brown eyes and gelled hair fill her vision. His expression is gentle and calm and everything she needs right now. Her fingers begin to ache and she realizes she's knotted them into a fist around one elbow of his suit jacket.

"Where are we?" she whispers.

"Somewhere over the Atlantic."

"Where's Eames?"

"Asleep in his seat behind you."

She nods and tries to steady the tremor in her breaths.

"Would you like to talk about it?"

She shakes her head. "It was just pieces from the dream in the library." She releases her grip on his sleeve and hopes she hasn't wrinkled the material too badly.

His gaze burrows into her for another moment before he lets go of her arms.

He's back to reading through the folder in his lap before she builds up the courage or weakness to speak again.

"Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"The designs Nash extracted from my mind, is Cobol going to use them against us somehow?"

"I'm not sure."

She takes a breath, and the next words tumble out before she can stop them. "He breached my mind, Arthur; he went in and picked me apart and I feel violated like I can't even...is this what it's like for all marks? Is this what we do to them?"

He is quiet for so long that she wonders if he will respond at all. When he finally speaks it's in a voice so low she has to lean in to hear it. "They don't usually have previous experience with shared dreaming; if we do our job right they aren't supposed to know anything happened at all."

"So we roofie them and that makes it okay?"

"It's different with them."

"Why?"

"Because they know the risks of their positions," his tone is vehement as he shifts to stare at the dark green leather of the chair in front of him. She hasn't seen him this perturbed since the warehouse in the Fischer job when Cobb let it slip that Yusuf's sedative had made death a shortcut into limbo for the team.

She leans forward so that he won't be able to miss her in the peripheral of his vision. "Just because they know them doesn't make it right."

He takes a breath, and when he turns back to her it's with the smooth, stoic expression that tells her he's back in control of himself. "Perhaps not. In any case, we'll be landing in just over three hours, and I think it would be wise to save these sorts of discussions for the car ride."

She watches the way his gaze doesn't falter and his fingers don't fidget or dart to his pocket for his die. She wonders if he's ever once had a nightmare about the things he does to people.

"Alright?" he asks her after a moment.

She nods, and then folds her body up against the concave wall of the airplane, as far away from him as she can get.

* * *

She stays close to Eames as they deplane and shuffle through the line for customs. He'd probably side with Arthur completely on the whole issue, but he's not the one she argued with, so at the moment she likes his presence more.

He seems to know something is up between her and Arthur. From his charismatic imitation of their much-too-perky flight attendant, to his, "I hope one of you took an introduction to Spanish course at some point; the only things I know how to say would get us arrested or shot," he's in top form, cutting through the tense atmosphere and reminding her of why she enjoyed working with these men in the first place.

But she doesn't let it placate her. She's spent the last several hours compressing all of her confusion into three questions—why did they come to Venezuela? What, exactly, does Cobol Engineering want with them? What tipped Arthur and Eames off in the first place?—and, by the time they walk from the airport out into the pummeling heat of the mid-afternoon sun and toward a car whose curly-haired driver could only be one man, she's worked the three down into one succinct command.

"How was your trip?" Yusuf asks them as they slide into the vehicle.

"We've had better," Arthur says at the same moment Ariadne demands, "Tell me what the hell is going on."

"Dom and I screwed up," Arthur says without pause, looking back at her from the front passenger seat. "I received a phone call two days ago from Cobol's CEO. He said he knew about our contract with Saito and about the Fischer job. He said Dom and I had a choice: either teach him how to perform a successful inception, or forfeit our lives and the lives everyone on the team."

Her toes curl up in her shoes. "And you said...?"

"Nothing. I hung up the phone, told Dom to get his family underground, and then started booking flights and rounding up the rest of you."

"How kind," she monotones. "Why not do the simple thing and just give Cobol what it wants?"

"Because, despite what you may think, I am not completely moralless. It's one thing for extractors and architects to know the keys to committing inception, but letting corporations in on that information is like mass-producing the atom bomb; there's no limit to the damage it could cause."

She runs her fingers through her hair and is reminded of how long it's been since her last shower, which reminds her of something else. "If Cobol wants us dead and Nash is working for them, why the hell am I still alive?"

"Probably because Nash thinks you know more than he had time to extract. We're not cooperating, which means that if the CEO wants the secrets to inception he's going to have to steal them from us before he kills us off."

"Pleasant little thought, isn't it?" Eames adds. "We're guaranteed life until Cobol doesn't need us anymore. Nice job security, that."

"So we're just supposed to hide out here until this all blows over?" Ariadne asks.

"No," says Arthur. "We wouldn't make it more than a month or two before Cobol's men tracked us here, got what they needed, and planted bullets in our brains. No, we have to go on the offensive."

"Which means?"

"This whole chase is compelled by one thought: 'I need to know how to perform an inception.' If we can erase that thought then we can offset the chain of events it's created and all go home happy and relatively safe."

"You're talking about another inception?"

"No, no, the exact opposite. If we can plant a thought we should be able to remove one. At least that's what Eames keeps telling me."

Ariadne glances over to Eames, and the forger smirks and stretches his arm out across the back of the empty seat between them.

"More work for you, little architect; aren't you excited?"

She tightens her grip on the bag in her lap and doesn't tell him that the only thing she feels right now is sick.


	3. Chapter 3

_You guys are flooring me with the reviews, alerts, and favorites. I can't tell you how excited it makes me to have people enjoy my writing._

_I still do not own any aspect of Inception. _

_~M._

The view from Ariadne's side of the car is mostly palm trees and flat-roofed buildings and smog. They drive until the buildings grow up into skyscrapers, and Yusuf stops the car in front of a twenty-story hotel and throws the keys to the valet.

Arthur and Eames step into the hotel with their duffels and their dress shirts looking for all the world like two men on a business trip, and Ariadne fidgets with the scarf around her neck and wishes she had worn something nicer than jeans.

At the front desk Arthur spits out a fluid sentence anchored by the word "reservaciones." Ariadne listens to the conversation for all of thirty seconds before turning to Yusuf to ask how long he's been in the city.

"Three hours, maybe. I've had just enough time to pick up the car, grab some lunch, and head back to the airport to pick you up."

"Where were you before that?" she asks, suppressing the pang in her stomach at the mention of food.

"Home in Kenya," he says. "And you?"

"Still trying to earn my degree in Paris."

He laughs. "I imagine that will be a bit of a challenge from half way around the world."

"I'm already late turning in a paper; I'll be lucky if my teachers don't drop me before this whole thing is over."

"Then we'll have to work quickly, for the sake of your GPA if nothing else," Arthur says, joining their circle with a hand full of keycards. "Our rooms are on the seventh floor, and we have event hall 203 reserved for as long as we need it."

"Wonderful," says Eames. "So how are we divvying up the rooms?"

"We aren't; I got four of them. No one should have to put up with your snoring for eight hours a night."

Eames grins. "Oh Arthur, I know how hard it is on you to share a room with me and not a bed, but you're really going to have to find more subtle ways to deal with your frustration."

"Careful," is all Arthur says as they step out of the lobby and in between the four mirrored walls of the elevator.

The soft music is drowned out by Eames chuckling.

Ariadne watches the minute shifts and twitches of their bodies reflected off into infinity and wonders how it would feel to create a space like this in the dream world.

* * *

In the hall Arthur hands out keycards, says to order room service if they're hungry, and tells them to be in the conference room at 9:00pm.

Ariadne takes her card, nods her head, and purses her lips against the new list of questions building up inside her brain. She needs answers, but if she doesn't get food, a shower, and some sleep beforehand she'll skip the conversation and slip straight into an argument.

She makes it halfway to the shower before her plan is punctured by a knock at her door.

In the past eight minutes she's kicked off her shoes, cranked up the A/C, phoned in her room service order, and tipped her totem. In the past eight minutes it appears that Arthur has managed to unbutton his suit jacket.

"I'm going to need some more clothes," she says as she opens the door.

He nods. "We can do that. Can I come in?"

"It would probably be better, for your sake, if you didn't."

"That may be true, but I really think we should talk about what was said in the airplane on the way here."

She watches him run his hand over his smoothed hair and gives a sigh. "You have until my food gets here."

She turns and walks toward her bed. Her forth step is accented by the soft click of the door shutting behind him.

He's supposed to follow her lead and sit, preferably not beside her on the bed or something, but she's pretty sure it's a common social curtsey not to lean your shoulder against the wall and tower over the person you're speaking to.

She gives him a minute to move on his own before saying, "There are chairs, you know."

He blinks and the space between his eyebrows crinkles for just an instant before smoothing. "Sorry."

She watches as he pulls off his jacket and drops into one of the chairs from the table beside the dresser, and she realizes that she hasn't seen him sleep once since he picked her up in Paris.

"So what do you want to talk about?" she asks.

"I need to know if I should start looking for a new architect," he says, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling his sleeves up a few folds. It makes him look younger, and she wonders if that's the point. "You were right on the plane when you said that our marks' knowledge of the risks of their positions doesn't make what we do to them right. There's a reason why extractions are illegal in most countries, and if that's enough to hold you back from building then I'll need to find someone else who can.'

She spreads out the thought inside her head and looks for the flaws. "So what happens if I chose not to work with you?"

"You stay here away from Cobol and wait for the rest of us to finish the job with a different architect. I should probably tell you that you'd be running a bit of a risk on that one; I'm not exaggerating when I say that Dom was the greatest architect in the business, and you blow him out of the water completely. There's no one else on the map who can do what you do, and this isn't exactly a situation where we have room for second rate designs. Then again, unless Yusuf can redesign his compound, you joining us means risking another trip to limbo, and I don't know what we'd find down there without Dom's subconscious to pave the way for us. And then there's always the third option."

She waits for him to continue.

He doesn't.

She debates waiting in silence for her food to arrive, but he has an annoying knack for piquing her interest. "What's the third option?"

"Same as the original plan for the Fischer job; you build the dream worlds, teach them to us, and we run the job without you. That's probably your safest bet overall."

"It's not any more ethical than your second suggestion, though."

"True."

"And anyway," she adds, "I'm not in the mood to commit to anything right this second. I can still feel Nash poking around inside my head, and I'm not sure I can knowingly do that to someone else."

He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, to look at her, and Ariadne fights the urge to fidget. "I understand, but I need an answer soon. A lot of my work hinges on what my architect can or cannot build for me."

"Make sense." She says it quickly, says it just to have something to say. "I'll have an answer for you by our meeting tonight."

He nods at her as a knock resonates against the door.

She moves to answer it, and a short man in a hotel uniform pulls a tray off a cart in the hallway and presents it to her.

Her knowledge of Spanish is all of ten words deep, if that, but she manages "Gracias" as she takes the food. She almost drops it when Arthur materializes at her shoulder and holds out a few brightly-colored bills.

The man reaches for the tip, gives them a smile and a "Gracias" of his own, and heads back toward the elevator.

"I guess I'm going to need to get some local currency along with the clothes," Ariadne says, setting the tray on the table.

Arthur laughs. "That I don't have to make you wait for," he says, pulling his wallet back out. "The exchange rate is a little less than three thousand bolivars to one euro, so it may feel like you're spending a fortune until you get used to it."

He holds a wad of bills out to her and it's all she can do to keep from batting it away. "I can't take your money, Arthur."

The corners of his eyes crinkle a bit at her words. "Consider it my way of apologizing for dragging you half way round the world on no notice."

"I'm going to let the room service and the clothes you're going to buy me make up for that. They've got to have an ATM somewhere around this city; I can get my own cash."

He snorts. "Take the money, Ariadne. You can pay me back once I've returned you to Paris."

She turns away from him and lifts the lid off her plate. She's not actually sure what 'Pabellón con Barandas' means, but it was the first authentic-sounding thing on the menu, and she's always been one for trying something new.

In the corner of her eye she watches Arthur set the bills on the dresser.

"I have some errands to run before our meeting," he says, stepping towards the door. "If you need anything give me a call."

The door shuts before she's decided how to respond.

* * *

The clock by her bed reads 8:30 when her phone alarm begins to chime, and Ariadne panics because her first class is at 8:00am. She he doesn't know why her alarm is only now going off and she can't figure out why the room is so dark.

The pieces fall together a moment later, and when they do she's not sure which version of reality she prefers. She slides out of bed and into the wrinkled shirt and jeans that she couldn't quite force herself to put back on after her shower. She still feels infinitely better than when she stepped off the plane, and she still has no idea what she's going to do with herself.

The smart thing, the logical thing, the rational thing to do would be to put on her 'so sorry' smile and tell them to stop by her room when it's all over. She could probably even email her teachers—a hotel this big had to have wifi—and explain the horrible flu that she'd come down with suddenly. With any luck she could turn in her assignments online and make it home without ruining her term entirely.

But she could barely take interest in her classes before this whole impromptu trip; even with every shudder that crawls up her spine at the thought of violating someone the way Nash violated her, she's not sure if she's strong enough to be this close to absolute creation and not succumb to the desire for it.

She's half way through making a list of pros and cons when she's interrupted by another knock at her door. Part of her wonders if there's a large 'Please Disturb' sign posted on the far side of it as she peers through the peephole at Eames' slouched form.

"Good evening," he says when she opens the door. "Yusuf won't answer his door but I figured, if you were ready, we could share an elevator ride down to the rendezvous point."

His grin is just a bit too wide.

"Did Arthur send you to talk to me?"

"He might have, if he actually thought he had the power to send me anywhere. Why, did you two have a spat?"

She grabs her book bag, because if there's one thing getting tangled up in Arthur's web has taught her it's to always be prepared, and steps into the hall.

"No. Sort of. I just don't know how comfortable I am with stealing from someone else's mind anymore."

"Because of your run-in with Nash?" he guesses, pressing the button beside the elevator doors.

"Yeah."

"Well I consider it my civic duty to make sure that beautiful, intelligent women don't waste their talents, not to mention that I've realized this whole string of events began with settling for shit architect. Tell me what it will take to get you on our team, my dear, and I'll make sure that Arthur makes it happen."

"Flattery, bribery, and scare tactics all rolled into one," she says as the elevator dings and a family of five floods into the hallway. "How are you not in politics somewhere?"

"Most governments prefer to be represented by men who haven't served jail time in multiple countries, but we're getting off topic; I need to make you an offer you can't refuse."

"I'm excited to hear what you come up with."

"Oh trust me, I am too." He narrows his eyes at her as if, by squinting at just the right angle, he can read her thoughts in the pores of her skin.

After a moment he sighs. "This is not going as well as I had hoped."

"Hoped?" she repeats. "So Arthur did talk to you, then."

"Of course. I believe his exact words were, 'We're all screwed without her.'"

"That's optimistic."

He chuckles. "You know how Arthur is, although I'm not sure he's too far off on this one. Not to pressure you."

She can't help but chuckle with him, in spite of the subject matter. "So is Yusuf going to meet me in the event hall dressed as the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come and complete this trifecta of persuasion?"

"We hadn't planned on it, but if you'll give me just a moment to phone his room I'll see what we can do."

The elevator dings again, and Ariadne starts to feel just a bit lightheaded. Part of her brain wonders if it's the indecision burrowing into her frontal lobe, but she dismisses the thought almost instantly, because there's really only one viable option for her.

"When you tell this story to Arthur later," she says, "Be sure to play up the fact that you were the one to save the team from almost certain failure."

She can almost feel the relief radiating off him, and she's not sure whether to feel appreciated for her skills or guilty for having given the others one more point to worry over.

"Thank you," he says as they step to door 203. "We needed a woman on this team."

She rolls her eyes and tries to think up a scathing comeback, but Yusuf appears in the hallway behind them and the moment is lost.


	4. Chapter 4

_Thank you all again for the attention and feedback you've been giving this story; you guys are the reason I've been able to crank these chapters out so quickly._

_I have a question before this story gets too much farther along: what is the purpose of a kick? I understand how one would have been needed in the limbo level of the Fischer job because there was no other way of getting back out, but on all the other dream levels they used a PASIV to put themselves under, so couldn't they just wait for the time to run out? They were obviously necessary to speed things along after Saito was shot, but I think I missed the explanation for why the team was planning to use them from the start._

_I still do not own any aspect of Inception._

_~M._

The event hall has already been arranged for them. Each of the four corners of the room has a makeshift desk stocked with its own unique supplies; one has some kind of chemistry set, another is covered with stacks of files, a laptop, and a familiar silver briefcase, a third has a few photos and newspaper clippings, and the last—hers, Ariadne guesses—is all sketch pads and corrugated cardboard and x-acto knives. In the middle of room sits a conference table and a drawing board.

Arthur is, of course, already waiting for them.

"I'm glad you could all make it," he says, rounding the table to meet them.

"Well the last dozen steps from the elevator were a real struggle, but we did manage," Eames quips, clapping Arthur in the shoulder before brushing past him to take a seat.

Arthur's eyes dart from Eames to Yusuf, and again from Yusuf to Ariadne.

For just an instant she can read the concern in his expression; a fear that the pieces aren't going to fall together the way he's willed them to. Then the panic is smoothed over and he hangs inquiry in the frame of his features. "Have you made your decision?"

Eames speaks before she can. "Not to worry, Arthur; all it took was a bit of basic human decency, which explains why you weren't able to convince her."

Arthur's gaze doesn't falter. "So you're in, then?"

She shrugs. "Looks like it."

"Thank you."

She nods and takes a seat next to Eames as Yusuf drops into the chair on her other side.

Arthur completes the circle and hands them each a manila file folder. "Our mark's name is Alexander Whelan," he begins, opening a folder of his own. "He's been the CEO of Cobol Engineering for fourteen years, and he has a thorough knowledge of who we are and what we do."

"You're saying he's been trained," Ariadne guesses.

"Sub-security, yes; which means we'll have to be prepared for a fight, but it's more than that. He's met with Dom and I before, and he's sure to have pictures and security footage of the rest of you. This isn't like the Fischer job; if we appear in his dream as ourselves it will be a sure sign to him that something's wrong."

Yusuf shifts in his seat. "So we'll need to be forgeries, then."

"Not forgeries, necessarily—feeding him four familiar people at once may be a tip off of its own—but we will need disguises. Eames, I'm counting on you for that one."

"Shouldn't be too hard," Eames says.

"Good. I've talked with Saito, and while he's pretty convinced of his own safety, he has agreed to give us financial backing."

"And what about Cobb?" Yusuf asks. "He was, after all, the one who led us into this mess."

Arthur shakes his head. "Cobb's with his children. I gave him the option of helping us, but he's not ready to leave them again so soon after everything that happened."

"The _option_?" Eames asks. "I'm not sure you grasp how dire this situation is."

"No Arthur's right," Ariadne says, dropping her file to meet his gaze. "If he's not ready to go back to work then he'd be more of a liability than anything else."

"But even if his participation was purely intellectual," Eames presses before Arthur cuts him off.

"It's already been decided; we do this one on our own or not at all, understand?"

"Well if you're going to be so bloody bullheaded about it then I don't really have a choice, do I?"

"We'll need to do three levels," Arthur continues, leaning back in his chair. "But, unlike the Fischer job, we won't just be planting ideas as we go, and we won't stealing information from a safe or some similar device like an extraction, either. Not only do we have to remove the concept of inception from Whelan's mind, but we have to erase the memory that he ever had such a knowledge."

"And how are you purposing we do that?" Yusuf asks.

"Eames?"

"I'm sorry, I must be a bit confused," the forger says. "Now you _do_ want my opinion?"

"Just talk." Irritation creates sharp creases in Arthur's voice.

"If you're sure you won't feel threatened," Eames acquiesces. "I'm calling it a 'Sherlock.'"

"Because...?" Ariadne prompts after he fails to continue.

"In Conan Doyle's books, Sherlock Holmes explained the function of the human mind as an attic; a finite space that can only hold so many things. Once you've filled it to the brim things begin to get lost or crowded out. Now, assuming Conan Doyle was a smart man with a fairly solid grasp of memory functions, we're going to try a bit of crowding out of our own. We'll feed Whelan trivial new information to suppress his understanding of inception until the understanding itself disappears altogether. It'll be sort of an inception and an extraction all rolled into one, really."

"Fascinating," Yusuf says at the same moment Ariadne asks, "Will that work?"

"It's all ridiculously theoretical," says Arthur. "But the psychology it's based on appears to be sound."

"What he means is Cobb would have loved it so it's probably our best bet," Eames explains.

"Alright," says Ariadne. "So how do we do we do it?"

* * *

It takes them three hours to come up with a plan.

It's not even a plan, really; it's more of an outline, but between Arthur's exacting precision and Eames' snark, Ariadne's impressed they have anything at all.

At least she knows what she's building.

There are only two things their mark lives for: his job and his gambling habit. The first dream will be a casino. Ariadne's never actually been inside of one, but Eames was quick to volunteer to take her on a fieldtrip. The entire objective of the topmost level will be to loll Whelan's subconscious into as complacent a state as possible; trick it into thinking nothing's wrong.

The second dream will be harder. Arthur said that people are most invested in new ideas when they're most profoundly affected by them, so she'll be building the background of a board meeting, where one of Cobol's rising new stars will suggest a new business venture—Yusuf suggested an oil pipeline off the east coast of Africa, but Arthur's thinking some as-of-yet-undeveloped technological investment—that should busy Whelan's mind, at least for a little while.

The final dream will be the most delicate thing she's ever created, because for the final level they have to plant an idea so jolting, so absolutely unpredictable that it loosens his grasp on all other thoughts. In the third dream Whelan will awake in his bed to the sound of his phone. The voice on the other end—Eames and Arthur still haven't agreed on who—will tell him the one thing he has never expected to hear: public interest has shifted, Cobol's stocks have crashed, and he is now the CEO of a bankrupt company. Arthur said in all his experience he's never worked in a dream so far removed from reality. He said they'll have minutes, at most, before Whelan's subconscious triggers and the whole thing collapses.

It's past midnight when Eames stands, stretches, and says he'll see them in the morning when his brain's stopped impersonating a bowl of yogurt.

Yusuf is on his feet before Eames has finished speaking, and makes it across the room in time to hold the door open for the forger.

Ariadne tries to follow their exit and makes it as far as a standing position before discovering that her left leg fell asleep sometime in the duration of their meeting and she can't feel anything below the knee. She grabs onto the table to keep from toppling over.

Arthur's strong grip curls around her arm before she's realized he's moved. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine. I've just been sitting for too long." She tries to laugh, but something in the way his eyes search her face causes the sound to fall flat.

He drops his grip and takes a step back, and she wonders if he thinks he scared her. "I got you some pajamas," he says, nodding toward the desk she already guessed to be hers. "I know they don't count as clothes, but I figured they would tide you over until tomorrow."

"Thanks." The feeling flows back to her leg in razorblade slices and she tries not to cringe.

"Sure. Thank you again, by the way, for agreeing to work this job. There really is no one else who could build these dreams for me."

"The decision was based mostly on self-preservation," she tells him, slowly kicking her leg to try to relieve some of the pain.

"Whatever it was, I appreciate it."

She waits for the jabbing to ease off so she won't crumple on her way to her desk.

He hovers like a mother hen.

She sighs. "Go to bed, Arthur."

"I just want to make sure you're alright."

"My leg fell asleep; it's not exactly the sort of thing you die from."

"Still."

She narrows her eyes at him. "If it was Eames or Yusuf in my position you'd already be upstairs in your room. If you want me to be part of your team then don't get to treat me differently just because I'm younger and have ovaries."

The space between his eyebrows scrunches as he takes another step back. "You're right, I'm sorry."

The pain's easing off, and she's held in place by the principle of the thing. "Goodnight, Arthur."

He moves away from her altogether, then; gathers up a few files from his desk; and only pauses briefly at the door to say, "See you in the morning, Ariadne."

She waits for the click of the latch before picking up her messenger bag and walking to her corner of the room. There's a grocery sack on her chair with what she can only assume are the pajamas Arthur mentioned inside.

She grabs the sack, hits the lights, and jiggles the doorknob on her way out to make sure it's locked.

She shares the elevator with a Hawaiian-shirted American who spends the ride shouting into his cell phone to a wife or girlfriend who 'should fucking realize that she's the reason he needs these vacations.'

She's pretty sure people like him are the reason people like her leave the States to finish their educations.

In her room she kicks off her shoes, peels off her bag, and dumps the contents of the grocery sack out on her bed. The pajamas are a camisole and pants—dark blue—with bright red cherries polka dotted across the bottoms. For an instant all she wants to do is crumple them back up in the bag and throw them in her closet, because there is something very awkward about having Arthur pick out sleepwear for her. But the rational side of her brain has always been louder than her squeamish emotional side, so she rips off the tags, strips off her clothes, and pulls the pajamas on.

They're a shade too big, but it's nothing she can't live with.

Arthur also had the decency to throw in a toiletry kit—toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, razor, shaving cream, face wash; the essentials all shrink-wrapped with familiar American brand names and strange packaging—and, between it and the sample bottles furnished by the hotel, she climbs into bed feeling cleaner than she has since Paris.

As she drifts off to sleep she replays lines from their brainstorming session and wonders, darkly, if all the skills and talent and imagination they keep insisting she has will be enough this time. She wonders, as she's pretty sure she'll wonder every night from now until the job's done, if she made the right choice.

She falls asleep without any answers.


	5. Chapter 5

_As always, a huge 'thank you' to everyone who reviewed. You don't actually get to see me grin like an idiot every time a new review alert pops up in my inbox, but I swear that I do. Also, a special thanks to __Tenar Ohtarwen__, Starrify, __Usakoesm, __Sisi0205__, and the anony__mous reviewer for explaining the purpose of a kick. I actually feel like I know what I'm writing about now thanks to you guys._

_At the risk of letting this AN run long, I should also mention that I may be a little slow getting new chapters posted over the next few weeks. My laptop shut off Monday morning and refused to turn back on for anything. It's still under warranty—thank goodness—but I had to ship it back to the manufacturer, and they estimated that it'll be 2-4 weeks before I'll see it again. __Until I get it back, my updates will depend on how often I can beg or bribe my roommates for the use of their computers. Sorry for the inconvenience!_

_I still do not own any aspect of Inception._

_~M._

"Lean your upper body forward a bit more, love; it'll help counter the recoil."

"Got it."

"And loosen your right hand a little if you insist on firing with your left—you want it supporting the pistol, not squeezing the life out of it."

"If it comes to an actual fight I'm pretty sure I'll be doing well if I can just get the gun pointed in the right direction; I doubt I'll have time to worry about form."

Eames chuckles. "You're right, but I promised Arthur I'd teach you to shoot properly before feeding you all of my bad habits."

Ariadne laughs with him and readjusts her grip on the gun in her hands.

"Now if this were a real shooting range the employees would be insisting that you wear eye and ear protection, but in here we don't exactly have to worry about the long-term effects of the noise or potential ricochet. Besides, once you get into the habit of putting something on before you begin shooting, you'll make yourself feel like you're forgetting something every time you try to fire a gun without it."

"Makes sense," she says, and tries to ignore the way the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as he mentions a 'real shooting range.' Her subconscious is already on edge; in between the slapdash construction of the gun range—no fliers on the bulletin board, no guns or trophies in the display case, and there's not even a cash register on the front counter—and his 'this sort of open hall is usually reserved for cops to practice in, but it's way nicer than a booth,' and the way he keeps pulling things out of the air when he realizes he forgot to add them to the original layout, it's a wonder her projections haven't charged the room and brought him down by now.

And Eames seems all but oblivious to it.

"So when you fire, you're going to want to line up your gunsight with the white dot fitting like a puzzle piece inside that little gap there, and when you get it in place you're going to pull back on the trigger nice and smoothly. The gun's going to jerk and make a loud nose to tell you that you've done everything perfectly, alright?"

"Sure."

"Good." He smiles and takes a step back. "Now, whenever you're ready."

She lines up the sight and pulls back the trigger. The noise reverberates through her body before she's ready for it, and the zombie target that Eames pinned up on the far side of the room doesn't even flutter as it takes the hit to its left frontal lobe.

"That was a bloody good shot," Eames says, and for just a second the humor in his voice is replaced by clean admiration.

She can hear the quick pulse of her heartbeat in her ears and the adrenaline is flowing dark and fast through her bloodstream and for a moment, for a fraction of a moment, it's not a dream anymore.

"How'd it feel?" he asks.

"Good," she breathes, lowering the gun to roll her shoulders. "Really good."

He claps her on the back, and she's pretty sure most shooting instructors would frown on that sort of behavior. "I told you you'd enjoy it. Now try to hit that same spot again."

* * *

By the time they're done the muscles in her arms are burning and she can't hold the gun in position without it shaking.

She blinks, and in the instant her eyes are closed the gray-walled gun range is swallowed up in the rich wallpaper of the event hall. She lifts her head off the table and reaches for the needle in her arm.

Arthur's hands are quicker than hers; he un-straps the wrist cuff and pulls out the needle with light, precise movements. "How was it?" he asks.

"She's a natural," Eames says, before she can slide in a comment about how she doesn't see Arthur jumping in to unhook the forger from _his_ tubing. "Another ten minutes and I'll have her shooting better than you."

"And how was going back under," Arthur asks, catching Ariadne's gaze with an expression that kills the biting remark on her lips.

"Better than last time." She fights the desire to look down at her right arm, where she knows the pockmark Arthur just finished creating in her wrist is kept company by the one she received in Paris.

He nods. "Are you ready to go?"

"Sure," she says, stepping to her desk to grab her bag before heading for the door.

Arthur meets her there. "We shouldn't be more than a couple hours," he says, throwing a glance back to the rest of the room.

"Be a love and pick us up something for lunch on your way back," Eames responds, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands together behind his head.

Arthur pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "What did you have in mind?"

"Oh, I'm not picky, whatever you happen to find is fine for me."

"Just make sure whatever you get isn't fried," Yusuf adds from his desk. "I feel like that's all they have to eat in this city."

"We'll find something good," Ariadne tells them.

Arthur nods and shuts the door behind them.

They don't talk in the hallway, or the elevator, or the lobby. They don't talk until the valet pulls up with the car Yusuf had collected them from the airport in and Arthur opens the passenger door for her.

"We talked about this," she tells him.

"This is different, please get in."

"Would you hold the door open for Eames?" She's not usually one to make an example out of something like this, but Cobb never treated her as anything but an architect, and she'll be damned if she doesn't get that same respect from Arthur.

"It depends on how much of a nuisance he was making himself at the time," he says, but the humor is strained.

She doesn't move.

He stares at her, eyes narrowed, and she can almost hear the grinding of the gears inside his head as he calculates the best way to deal with the situation at hand.

After a moment he lowers his gaze, releases his grip on the open door, and steps around to driver's side. The movements are sharp as he drops into his seat and jerks the door shut behind him.

The valet shoots her a sympathetic glance as she climbs into her own seat. She barely has time to close the door before they're speeding out into the street.

She looks from Arthur's clenched jaw to her window and back again, because she's never been one to leave things unresolved. "Last night you agreed that if I stayed on the team you'd treat me like one of the guys. You don't get to be angry when I call you out for breaking that agreement."

He takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment before exhaling. "I'm not angry."

"Really? So all that storming around you did back there was just for show?"

"I just…" He pauses, and she's not sure she's ever seen him struggle for words before. "You didn't have a problem with me doing things like holding doors open on the Fischer Job."

"That's because on the Fischer job we were both working for Cobb."

"I'm not sure I understand."

She catches herself reaching up to rub her temple and fixes both hands firmly on her bag. "If we're coworkers and you hold a door open for me it doesn't mean anything, because we're equals. If you're my boss and you hold a door open for me you change the dynamic of how you and the rest of the team relate to me. I'm not going to be singled out because you don't realize that chivalry is dead."

"Chivalry isn't dead," he tells her.

She snorts. "Yeah, that's what I wanted you to take away from what I just said."

"No, I just want you to realize that I don't mean to single you out by doing things that I wouldn't do for the others. This probably won't improve your view of me in any way, but the only other woman I've ever done this sort of work with was Mal, and she had an appreciation for Old World values."

"Well I'm not Mal."

He laughs, and it's a warm, honest, slightly exasperated sound that melts through the tension in the car. "No you're not, thank God."

"What do you mean?"

"She was wonderful," Arthur says, glancing at her. "And I don't mean to speak ill of the dead, but there were times when she would tell Dom that a job had to be done a certain way, and there wasn't a force in the world that would change his mind after that, regardless of whether or not she was right. They were brilliant together, but working with two people who love each other like they loved each other can be insufferable sometimes."

She knows their fight—if it could be called a fight—is over when she says, "Give me an example," and he responds with the story of a job the three of them worked during Dom and Moll's engagement where just being in the same room with the two of them was awkward.

They pull into the parking lot of a strip mall and she half expects Arthur to pass her a credit card and pull out some files to read while she goes inside and shops, but he steps out of the car right along with her and leads the way inside. They're barely through the doors when she realizes why.

She's not sure whether it's his designer suit or her clearly crumpled clothing that seems trip a silent alarm that draws every salesperson in the store to them, but all at once the aisle in front of her disappears amid a sea of eager voices and enthusiastic hands that keep waving clothes in front of her like bullfighters' flags.

Arthur smiles and says a few quick words, and the mob begins to dissipate.

"Thank you," she breathes in the aftermath.

"It's an aspect of the culture here," he tells her. "Most of North America and Western Europe don't tend to be quite as enthusiastic about their merchandise as the rest of the world."

"Go figure."

It's weird at first. He follows her up and down the aisles chatting quietly and offering to help carry her growing collection of clothes. She's never been one of those girls who drags a guy with her to help her pick out clothes—she's known too many tasteless boys—but he's calm and patient and doesn't offer any snide comments about her wardrobe choices even though she's pretty sure their tastes clash entirely.

On the way back to the hotel they pick up "burgers"—which are closer to sub sandwiches with a beef patty thrown in for variety—and he waits until they reach the hotel entrance to mention that he has a few other errands to run. He asks her to tell the others that they'll be having another group meeting at 7pm and pulls away.

It takes her until the hotel lobby to wonder why he couldn't have run his errands while she bought clothes.

* * *

"Arthur's still out, but I brought lunch," she says, working her way through the door with the food and her bags. The last half of the sentence withers on her lips as she catches sight of Eames.

He's pacing the room with hard steps, and his face is trapped in a scowl she's rarely seen on him. He holds his cell phone tightly to his ear, and as she glances around the room for Yusuf, he growls something in a language she, with all her visits abroad, can only place as 'African.'

He looks at her her, barks another few words into the phone, and snaps it shut.

"Something wrong?" she asks, dropping her bags on the conference table.

He glances down at his phone, and when he looks back up his face is twisted into a wry smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Just a bit of trouble with a previous job," he explains, joining her at the table. "What's for lunch?"

"Burgers, sort of." She pulls one out of the bag and holds it out to him. "Where's Yusuf and what kind of trouble?"

"Yusuf went to have a lie down, and the trouble is Arthur picked me up in the middle of another job, and my previous employer is none too pleased about me popping off to South America while his business is still in a bind."

"How bad is it?"

He shrugs. "Just some loose ends I'll need to tie up after we're done here, and I may need to spend a few months lying low, but I was planning to do that anyway.

"Don't worry, love," he adds, catching her frown. "I've been in worse scrapes before; it's nothing I can't handle."

"Honestly?"

"Of course."

She doesn't believe him, but this is one of those things that she'll worry about after the job is over, just like graduating on time and figuring out if designing real buildings for the rest of her life will ever be enough for her.

"Okay, she says, gathering up her bags again. "I'm going to go put my stuff away and see if Yusuf wants his food."

He nods in between bites.

"I'll probably be back down in a little while, but if I don't catch you again before then, Arthur wanted me to let you guys know we're meeting again at seven."

"Ah, yes, always with the meetings." This time his smirk is real, and she lets it quell some of her concerns as she steps out the door.


	6. Chapter 6

_I'm guessing from the overwhelming drop in reviews that the last chapter was not a huge hit. Sorry about that! I'm a big fan of critique and constructive criticism, and I'd really love to hear from you when you don't like somenthing so I can avoid making the same mistake a second time around and save this story from going in a direction that the majority of you aren't interested in reading. (I feel like I should add that I almost deleted this paragraph three different times during my editing process, because I am terrified that it comes across as obnoxious and needy, and that is not my intent at all. I just don't want to add something to this piece and think 'Yes! This is exactly what this part of the story needs!' and have it be a huge failure without me knowing. All that to say, please point out my shortcomings; I really do want to know where I should focus on improving.)_

_As always, a huge THANK YOU for the reviews; you guys made my week!_

_I still do not own any aspect of Inception._

_~M_

Their meeting is a performance art piece called "There is Not Enough Time." Ariadne doesn't have much experience with performance art, but she's pretty sure the presentation couldn't be more compelling.

Arthur sets the scene with a list of what they need to accomplish: Ariadne needs to get to Vegas for the casinos and Egypt for the interior of Whelan's bedroom, and then come back and create three complete dreamscapes; Eames needs to construct forgeries of the up-and-coming Cobol employee and the voice on the other end of Whelan's middle-of-the-night phone call, create disguises of some sort for the team, and then teach them all how to recreate the disguises for themselves; Yusuf needs figure out if it's possible to build a compound that will let them go three dreams deep and still not visit limbo in the event of a death; and Arthur himself needs to find a way around Cobol's network firewall because the rest of his research on Whelan is going in circles.

The cast nods and jots down notes and makes the occasional snide remark as they listen to his monologue, which comes to a close with a resolute, "And we need to be ready by the twenty-seventh; Whelan's scheduled for a knee replacement surgery, and it's the only time we'll have to work this."

"Wait," Eames says. "You mean the twenty-seventh like this coming twenty-seventh?"

"Yes," says Arthur.

"You mean the twenty-seventh that's sixteen days from now?"

"It's the only opportunity we have."

"Well then we might as well begin calling up our loved ones and saying goodbye right now, because there's no bloody way we could work a basic extraction job in sixteen days with these kind of specs, let alone something new like this."

Arthur takes a step closer to Eames. "You were the one who said this would work."

"Yes, when I thought we'd have Cobb on the team and enough time to plan this lovely little excursion. Architecture and chemistry aside, do you know how long it takes to forge an identity? That's a living, breathing, three-dimensional person, and you have to get so deeply inside their mind that you know why it is they part their hair on a particular side and how they go about choosing what to order of a menu for dinner."

"What would you like me to do, then?" Arthur's voice is dangerously sharp, but Eames doesn't falter.

"Get the surgeon to reschedule the date and call Cobb and tell him to get his ass down here before we botch this and get ourselves killed."

"Rescheduling could tip Whelan off that something's going on, and I'm not calling Dom."

Eames jerks to his feet. "Why the bloody hell not?"

"Because his children have already lost their mother," Arthur shouts, slamming his fist down onto the tabletop. "If we botch this, they don't deserve to lose their father too."

The room is silent in the aftermath. Ariadne's head swims as she's dragged back to the memory of two small children who she only knows through the images of Cobb's dreams.

When Eames reaches for his notepad, the scraping of paper against laminated wood is earsplitting. "Maybe you should consider consulting the team on who gets to live and die next time," he bites out before storming from the room.

The door slams shut behind him.

Arthur looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath. When he tips his chin back down there's a look in his eyes that Ariadne wasn't sure he was capable of: desperation. He runs a hand over his hair before speaking. "This is bad," he says, glancing from her to Yusuf.

Neither knows how to respond, so he continues. "I'm not exactly one for working jobs with these levels of uncertainty, but it's not an exaggeration to say that if we don't do this one we would be better off overdosing in our rooms for the hell that Cobol will put us through when they find us. This is our only option, and we have to take it."

"We deserve it." The words are out of Ariadne's mouth almost before the thought has finished forming. "For what we do to people's minds, we deserve whatever they'll do to us."

Arthur shakes his head. "We might deserve some sort of punishment, maybe, but not from an organization like Cobol. There's no justice in that."

There are too many sides to Arthur—too many shades from the guy who took Ariadne shopping this afternoon who the man who sits before her. He's difficult because she's never quite sure which side of him will surface next.

"I'm not much for issues of morality," Yusuf notes before she can say anything. "But I'm pretty sure our chances of survival would be increased if we split up now and stayed off the grid for a few years, rather than all going together to visit Whelan in his element."

"Maybe," says Arthur. "Maybe you're better at hiding than I imagine, but I've seen Cobol take out men whose whole life objectives were to disappear completely."

"Then tell them what they want to hear. Do whatever you have to in order to reverse this mess that you've dragged us into."

"No."

It's Yusuf's turn to stare up at the ceiling. "I should have known better than to get involved with Americans."

"Work this job for me and I swear you won't ever have to hear from me again."

"Because we'll both be dead," Yusuf finishes for him, but he sighs. "It's better than waiting for them to hunt us down."

"Thank you. Yes it is." Arthur closes his eyes for a moment before looking at Ariadne. "And where do you stand?"

She shrugs. "I already told you I was in. The stakes getting a little higher doesn't change anything for me."

She doesn't get a 'thank you.' Instead, Arthur reaches out and squeezes her wrist.

"Alright," he says. "Let's get back to work."

* * *

It's around midnight when the door to the event hall opens.

Eames's gaze and footing don't falter for a second as he makes his way over to Ariadne's desk. "You ready for some more target practice?" he asks, and his voice is back to its carefree tone.

She's in the middle of designing the maze for the second dream level, but she knows better than to say no. "Sure."

"Arthur," Eames calls out without turning. "We'll need your participation as well."

"Is this your way of making a truce, Eames?" Arthur asks.

"Just get the case set up before I change my mind. We'll need enough Somnacin for twenty minutes."

"Can I have you test a new formula while you're at it?" Yusuf asks, removing his reading glasses and twisting in his chair.

"Only if you can promise we won't stumble into limbo while we're under." Eames responds as he moves towards the conference table where Arthur is unwinding strands of tubing. "There's a strong chance we won't all survive the full time.

"In fact, it might be better if you were to join us," he adds after a moment. "It'll be good practice."

Yusuf shakes his head. "Someone should be here to monitor you."

"We'll be fine for twenty minutes, and I don't want you to be a liability on the Whelan job because you don't remember how to work with the rest of us."

They both look at Arthur, waiting for the point man to pick a side.

Arthur arches an eyebrow. "If something happens while we're under it's on you, Eames."

"Of course, darling," Eames agrees. He's all smiles and slouched shoulders as he hovers too close to Arthur. The point man takes a step away from him without glancing up from his work, and Eames' grin grows almost manic.

"What's the game plan?" Ariadne asks, sorting things out on her desk. Twenty minutes may not feel like much in the real world, but four hours in whatever dream Eames is orchestrating for them will be more than enough to make her forget where she left off. "I'm assuming we wouldn't need Yusuf and Arthur for another trip to the gun range."

"You're assuming he's not a complete sadist," Arthur notes, but his fingers don't slow.

Eames speaks over him. "I realized, my dear Ariadne, that you've never actually worked an extraction before, and that's a travesty that must be amended. You, Yusuf, and I are going to break into Arthur's mind."

"Seriously?"

"Well, ideally," he explains. "Rule number one in this line of work is something about not letting the mark know he's the mark, but we'll see what we can do."

"And you're cool with this?" she asks as she slides into the chair next to where Arthur is setting up the PASIV.

Arthur shrugs. "You won't succeed," he says. "So, why not?"

"What kind of information are we looking for?"

"Oh, I don't have a preference," Eames says. "His social security number, real last name, maybe where he's been since the Fischer job."

Ariadne turns back to Arthur. "I thought you were in the States with Cobb."

"That's what I thought too, but he's been mum about the whole thing," says Eames.

Arthur, for his part, doesn't say anything.

Yusuf joins their group and sets a collection of vials on the tabletop. Arthur slides them into place and passes out the needle-tipped tubes.

Ariadne looks for the more faded pink dot on her wrist and shoves the needle into it. Maybe she can use this session to blot out some of her memories of Nash.

"Are you ready?" Arthur asks them, finger poised over the button.

He fades in a chorus of "Yes."

* * *

Noise. Heat. Color. Shadow. A thumping baseline loud enough to recalibrate the beat of her heart. Bodies that shiver and twist and grind. A voice in her ear.

"The more overwhelming you make a setting, the less detail you actually have to put into it. That's a trick for those who have no training in architecture."

The lights of the club paint Arthur in an ever changing spectrum, but there's something altogether reassuring about his presence.

About the hand he rests on the small of her back.

"Is this alright?" he asks her.

She nods before she can talk herself out of it. "Where are Eames and Yusuf?"

"Around here somewhere, I'm sure. Eames is probably helping Yusuf put the finishing touches on his dream world."

"How do you know this isn't Eames' dream?"

"Because the songs aren't in English."

She nods again and wishes she had been quick enough to pick up on that. "So he's the dreamer," she thinks out loud, watching the dancers contort to the pulse of the music. "And these would be projections of your subconscious."

"Unfortunately so."

"They're dancing," she informs him.

"Yes."

"Does that mean you dance?"

"It means some part of my brain thinks it can."

She laughs, and he smiles down at her. "I suppose this is Eames' way of making us even, on whatever warped scale his mind adheres to."

"That does sound like Eames," she agrees, before frowning. "So, should I be asking the projections questions or something?"

"You can if you'd like."

"But...?"

"But they're projections of my subconscious, and chances are asking them questions would only make them suspicious."

"Ah."

"Here," he says, guiding her through the crowd with his hand still anchored on the small of her back. "Let me buy you a drink while we wait for Mr. Eames to get his plan into place."

He barely has time to chuckle at her order of a Bahama Mama—the only drink she's ever had at a bar before—when their conversation is interrupted.

"Hey, cutie, I'd let you buy me a Cosmo if you offered." The woman is dark-haired, bronze-skinned, gorgeous, and leans into Arthur's personal space like she knows it.

"Hello, Eames," says Arthur.

"Eames?" the woman asks, wrinkling her nose. "Cutie, if you want to call me something, call me Veronica; that's my name." She leans forward, and her red tube of a dress strains to cover her considerable assets.

"You could stand to be a bit more subtle in your design," Arthur notes as the bartender hands Ariadne her drink.

"These are one-hundred percent God given, honey," Veronica says, shimming her chest at him. "Want a touch?"

"That's obscene."

Veronica rolls her eyes. "But it is effective."

"They'd watch you if you grew wings, too," Arthur says, and Ariadne realizes that, apart from the music, their conversation is the only noise in the room. The projections stare like vultures, waiting to feed.

"True." Veronica straightens and brings a hand up to fiddle with her silver necklace. "But it wouldn't be half as impressive of a show."

"Just tone it down a little."

"Can't tone it down too much or our dear little architect won't get any practice."

"Where is Yusuf?" Ariadne asks to head off their bickering.

"Setting a few things up for us," Veronica says, confirming Arthur's previous suspicions. "He wasn't exactly expecting us to pop up in his dream."

Arthur's hand moves from Ariadne's back to her elbow. "For your sakes we should probably move to a less occupied area. I'm assuming Yusuf's designing some sort of safehold?"

"Something like that," Veronica says, stepping away from the bar and blazing a trail through the crowd of silent, staring bodies.

They round the corner into a long, poorly lit hallway, and Veronica begins reaching down her dress and producing hand guns from some nonexistent space. She smirks as she passes them out. "This will really get them excited."

"By 'excited' you mean 'ready to murder us,' don't you?" Ariadne asks, switching off the safety on her gun the way Eames taught her.

Veronica giggles in a high, nerve-grating twitter. "Just remember what you learned at the gun range and you'll be fine. Besides, it's okay to mess up in here, that's why most militaries use PASIVs to train their soldiers."

They duck through a door and into an oversized broom closet.

"I had imagined this being bigger," Veronica tells Yusuf, who's perched on the edge of a sink.

"Well maybe next time we could have the architect do the designing rather than trying to piece it together at the last moment," the chemist says as Veronica passes him a gun of his own.

"Sorry, I'm working off the cuff on this one. Now be a love and sic Arthur's subconscious on us."

Everything is still for six beats of the current song, and then the pounding of feet fills the air.

"Thank you," Veronica says, throwing a glance through the cracked door. "Now, our goal is to get from here to the safe under the bar. I'll take point, since Arthur can't be trusted not to have ulterior motives on this job. Ariadne, stay close and watch the rest of us, you'll do beautifully."

"Is there a reason why we couldn't have hopped over the bar and gone for the safe while we were standing there?" Arthur asks.

"Because it wouldn't be much of a training exercise if it were that easy, now would it?" Veronica shakes her head. "Alright, and three…two…one."

It only takes Ariadne a moment to realize that part of her had expected this experience to be similar to a video game, and that that part of her was dead wrong.

She follows the bright spot of Veronica's dress back into the hallway, and manages to take down two projections before the mob grows too large and she's shoved up against the wall. She runs out of room to raise her gun, so she shoots towards the floor and hopes she hits the projections' feet and not her own.

They scream in her ears and pry the gun from her fingers. One of them raises it to her forehead and she closes her eyes and thinks about Cobb and her first time in a dream like this, and how being shot in the head can't be nearly as bad as a knife to the stomach.

She hears the bang, but it's too far away.

"Ariadne!" It's Arthur's sharp, steady voice that forces her eyes open in time to watch the projection with the gun slump to the floor.

He says her name again, and by the second time he's close enough to wrap his hand around her arm and press his pistol into her hands.

He pulls another one from an inside pocket of his suit.

Eames didn't teach her how to shoot one handed, but the projections are so close that it doesn't require much skill. She drops four of them in the time it takes Arthur to lead her from the hall back into the main room.

"Problems?" Veronica shouts over the music and the screams.

"It's a little overwhelming," Ariadne tells her.

"You're doing fine," Veronica says, leading them around the edge of the room so their backs are never to any of the projections. "It's exciting isn't it?"

There are bodies heaped in piles on the floor by now, and there doesn't seem to be any end to the charging ones.

"We're going to need a different plan," says Ariadne.

"You're right," Veronica agrees.

And then she pushes away from the wall and slams the butt of her gun into Arthur's head. He crumples, and Ariadne doesn't have time to voice the scream rising in her throat before Veronica turns to her and swings her gun and the shadows of the room knit themselves together into black.

* * *

"What the hell was that?" Arthur demands as the event hall materializes around them.

"Couldn't have the projections rip us apart, and I didn't want to shoot you while you were still conscious," Eames says, pulling out his IV and stepping away from the table. "Wouldn't want things get too traumatizing." The words are careless. They seem out of place when paired with his quick steps toward Arthur's desk.

He picks up a wallet Ariadne doesn't remember seeing there before they went under, and begins to look inside.

"Shit." Arthur is up and across the room before she can blink.

Eames snatches out the contents of the largest pocket and throws the wallet in Arthur's face as the point man lunges for it.

The forger races back to the conference table and slides around to its far side, glancing at Arthur before looking down at the wad of ticket stubs and Euros in his hand. The confusion on his face grows as he flips through the airline vouchers. "Paris?" he asks at last. "Why?"

And then Ariadne feels the kick.


	7. Chapter 7

_Oh gosh, thank you all so much for all the wonderful reviews and for putting up with my neurosis/self-doubt. Honestly, you are the kindest people on the planet for your assurances, encouragement, and constructive criticism; I can't tell you how much it all means to me._

_~M._

Ariadne wakes to the muffled sound of gunshots and screams.

Her head hurts. She is lying sideways on a vinyl floor. It takes her longer than it should to realize that those two things are probably related.

"Sorry about that," Yusuf says to her over his shoulder. He is crouched in front of Veronica's sleeping body. The woman is propped up in a sitting position against the opposite wall of the storage closet and, as Ariadne watches, Yusuf grabs her bare shoulder and half tips, half shoves the woman towards the floor.

Veronica's dark eyes snap open as her head bounces against the flooring. She's still wearing Eames' confused expression from the previous dream, but it warps into a grin as she pulls out the needle in her wrist and reaches down her dress for another gun.

"I would have given you more time, but the projections are about to break through that door, and I thought a little more shooting practice might be in order." Yusuf says, moving from Veronica to Arthur and repeating the makeshift kick on him.

"Perfect timing," Veronica says, climbing to her feet. "Although I believe Arthur has some explaining to do when this is all over."

She crosses the room and offers Ariadne a hand as Arthur winces and picks himself up off the floor.

"So you didn't shoot us," Ariadne guesses as her fingers undo the band holding a needle in her wrist and her mind tries to fight through the fog of the past few minutes.

"I'm trickier than that," says Veronica. "Although don't think it didn't cross my mind as I dragged your bodies back here through the mob. It's a wonder any of us survived."

There are a million more questions buzzing around Ariadne's brain, but the door to the maintenance closet groans and cracks, and Veronica hands her a gun, and Ariadne realizes that most of the questions aren't for Eames at all. Most of them have to do with Arthur and Paris and things she's not sure she can phrase civilly right this second.

She's never thought she would be grateful for a horde of attacking projections, but the weight of the gun in her hands is almost cathartic.

From the corner of her eye she watches as Arthur steps to Veronica's side and slams his fist into the woman's face.

Her blood matches her dress almost perfectly.

* * *

There's still twelve minutes left on the clock when Ariadne comes back to reality. The others follow in quick succession.

She pulls out her IV, walks over to her desk, and fishes out her bishop without looking at any of them.

She tips the chess piece even though she already knows that it will land the way she designed it to. She clutters up the neat stacks she had made of all her work before going under, and tries very hard not to listen to Eames' smug remarks or Arthur's biting responses or Yusuf's attempts to get any of them to describe how the switch from the first dream to the second and back was—Easy transition? Any sense of disorientation? Did it feel exactly like being in the hotel?—because her brain hasn't stopped thinking about Paris and the possible reasons for Arthur to be there.

By the time she finishes the maze layout for the second dream level, she has three.

Reason One: Arthur was there to check up on her, because he didn't believe her that night in the hotel in Los Angeles when she had said she was fine.

Reason Two: Arthur was there to make sure she didn't blab about the job, because screwing with the mind of one of the most influential people on the planet is a touchy thing that could mean big money if leaked to the right people.

Reason Three: He had a job and/or apartment and/or life in Paris, and his time there had absolutely nothing to do with her.

There is a hazy reason four that she won't let herself form into an actual sentence, because she knows better than to think that one peck on the lips in the lobby of a hotel inside a dream signifies the kind of attraction that would draw any man, much less a man like Arthur, across an ocean.

And it's not like he even called in the four months following the Fischer job.

But they do need to talk.

She waits for the others to realize that most normal people go to bed before one in the morning, but none of them are 'normal' by any stretch, and she suspects that they're all still working through the jetlag of their trip.

It's around two a.m. when Eames finally bids them goodnight, and two-thirty when Yusuf follows suit.

She decides to wait an extra ten minutes—just in case Yusuf forgot to grab something, or had some kind of revelation on the way to his room—and barely makes it to three before a shadow crosses her desk.

"You weren't supposed to know about Paris," Arthur says.

"You mean I wasn't supposed to know that you were in Paris," she corrects his wording, dropping the pen in her hand down on the tabletop.

"Yes."

He leans against the edge of her desk and looks down at her.

She wonders if he has any idea how much she hates it when he towers over her. "How long were you there?"

"I stayed in the States for two weeks visiting Dom and the kids before flying over. I was in France until I got the call from Cobol."

"Were you there for a job?" She debates leading the way to the conference table or making him pull a chair over, but she's scared of shattering the spell that's compelling him to speak, so she straightens in her seat and deals with it.

"No."

"Where you there because of me?"

His eyes slide from her face to the door, and she struggles to read his features in profile. "Yes."

"Because you were checking up on me, or because you didn't trust that I could keep what we did a secret?"

"Neither," he says quickly, and then frowns. "Both. I don't know."

"How do you not know?"

His gaze snaps back to her, and he is no longer the steady point man she would follow—albeit grudgingly—down three dream levels. His eyes are the burning, bitter, angry eyes of a beaten child. "Because I never know anything with you. Because every time I try to figure you out I hit a dead end, and every time I try to guess your next move I guess wrong. I feel like everything about you is written in a language I don't understand, and I have to decipher you, because until I do you're a free variable in the equation—a risk—and we have far too many of those already."

"So I'm just a puzzle for you to solve?" she asks, trying to keep the irritation that's tightening in her chest from bubbling over in the wake of his words. "Some game to keep your mind active during the boring months?"

He laughs, but the sound is humorless and desperate. "No. No, you're the _obsession_"—he rolls the word slow and deliberate between his lips—"you're the mania inside my brain that won't turn off. You're the reason it's been four months since my last job. You are nothing like Mal, but I finally understand why Dom couldn't keep her from showing up in his subconscious, and I thought maybe, maybe if I went to Paris and watched you long enough I could get you out of my head. I thought it was some stupid crush that could be broken if I just watched you be normal and boring and predictable, but it didn't work, because you are never any of those things. You made studying for exams and shopping for groceries look like impossibly complex feats, ones I could never hope to accomplish for myself. And even now I'm watching your face and I can see that you're mad and hurt—with reason—but I can't for the life of me guess what you're going to say next."

There are many things she could say—billions, all popping into her head at once—but all she can feel is the moment in the library when she looked down and saw the mark on her arm. It's betrayal. It's the theft of something she didn't know could be stolen in the first place. One more pair of eyes poking around her life without permission.

She doesn't realize that the autopilot in her brain has kicked in until the elevator dings and she finds her feet moving forward to step inside. She presses the button for seven, and begs whatever deity is listening that he won't follow her.

The doors slide closed without a hitch.

* * *

It's five a.m. and she still can't sleep. Her heart pounds in her chest with every muffled sound of the hotel around her, and she feels like she is waiting for something. She doesn't know what the something is, but it needs to hurry up and happen so she can get it over with and get some rest.

She rolls from her back to her side for the thousandth time and tries not to think about him. She realizes that she is thinking about not thinking about him, and wonders if it's time to try cold showers and self-induced concussions to break the cycle.

She doesn't know how she ends up standing in the hall outside his door in the pajamas he bought her, but there she is, and the hand curled around her keycard is already knocking against the wood.

He answers too quickly. He answers in a faded black t-shirt and gray plaid pajama pants and a frown.

She doesn't know if he's frowning because of the hour, or her attire, or her presence in general, and she doesn't care, because it's his fault her brain won't stop ticking tonight. Her five a.m. mind has only come up with two ways to make it stop, and she had to rule out the first one because she doesn't know where to get a gun at this hour.

She takes a step forward, raises her heels off the carpet, and presses her lips against his.


	8. Chapter 8

_I don't even know what to say to you guys. I left on a camping trip after posting the last chapter, and I came home to an inbox flooded with alerts, favorites, and reviews. Honestly, I was absolutely terrified to post the last chapter because I was scared Arthur would sound completely out of character and that the whole scenario would feel forced. I am incredibly grateful both for all of the praise and encouragement you've given, and for the honesty and investment of those of you who left critiques. Thank you all so much._

_I also wanted to add a shout-out to Jubilee7, for being the first person ever to note that I stole my pen name from Voltaire. :)_

_~M._

She rests her fingertips on his chest to steady her balance, and his body tenses beneath her touch. It's the only movement her kiss elicits from him.

When she pulls back to look at him, his eyes are open and his face is smooth and unreadable. It's all she can do to refrain from slamming her fist against his chest in an attempt to shatter his impersonation of graves and statues and towering skyscrapers that never change.

She forces her palms to her sides and weighs her options. All the flaws in this plan are suddenly garishly obvious, and she can't figure out how the hell she got this far without seeing them, or how she'll get back to her room with any dignity left.

She jumps when his hand closes on her upper arm. All of the movement he seemed to have lost a moment ago returns in overdrive as he drags her into his room, shuts the door, and shoves her toward his bed.

Her heart begins hammering out a jagged rhythm. She forms her hands into fists to keep them from shaking as her mind runs through all the possible ways this moment could play out.

"Arthur." It's not a question, it's a prompt; a 'you're being crazy and you need to stop' prompt.

He doesn't look at her as he reaches for something on the nightstand and then stalks across the room to the dresser.

The die thunders across the wood.

He looks at it for the fraction of a second, before picking it up and throwing it again. The calm mask of his face doesn't flicker as he picks it up for a third throw.

"This is real," she tells him as she stands to try to dissipate the anger that's overwhelming the panic in her system. "We both know how we got here."

The die lands a third time, and he pulls in a shaky breath, runs a hand over his immaculate hair, and turns to look at her. "This has to be a dream."

"Except that it's not," she edges around the bed and toward the closed door. "I'm going to go back to my room to let you sort this out for yourself."

She makes it four steps before he catches her wrist.

She turns back, ready to snap at him for being so bipolar tonight, and tenses.

Because it's his lips pressed against hers this time.

The kiss is delicate—barely the brush of skin against skin—until she shifts toward him, raising her free hand up to curl around the back of his neck.

His mouth turns harsh and fervent against her own, and she can taste the spearmint of his mouthwash and feel the heat of his breath on her tongue. He lets go of her wrist and cups her face between his hands.

"You've dreamed about this," she accuses softly in the breaths between one kiss and the next. "That's why you went for your die."

"Yes," he breathes.

"Is this what you imagined it would be like?"

"No." His head dips and he plants kisses along her collarbone before adding. "It was nothing compared to this."

She slides the hand on his neck forward and raises his chin until his lips find hers again.

The kiss draws itself out into a frenzied, perfect moment that she's not sure she understands and will probably spend the rest of the night trying to interpret.

It's shattered by a knock at the door.

She tries to construct a mental list of everyone who might be up at this hour and in need of Arthur's opinion, and comes up lacking.

The space between Arthur's eyebrows crinkles, and she guesses he's on the same page. He brushes past her and glances through the peephole before pulling the door open.

Dom Cobb stands in the hallway with a black garment bag and an aurora of exhaustion.

"I told Eames not to call you," Arthur tells him with all the surprise of a man discussing the weather.

"He said that," Cobb says tiredly. "He also said that he'd back out of the job if I didn't get down here. He's very convincing when he wants to be."

"He's an ass," Arthur responds, and then sighs. "Do you have a room?"

Cobb nods. "I'm in 1218. I didn't want to wake you up, but I thought it would be good to let you know I was here." He pauses, and his gaze shifts from Arthur to Ariadne. "Sorry if I interrupted anything."

The exhaustion's catching up with her, and she's starting to lose track of all of the twists this evening seems intent on shoving in her way. When Cobb won't stop looking at her expectantly, she forces her lips into a smile and defers. "How have you been?"

It's his turn to try to shift gears. "I'm doing well." He pauses, thinking. "I'm back with my children. I got to watch my daughter turn six. Thank you for that."

She nods as Arthur asks, "How are they?"

"They're safe. We packed up and left California when we got your call. Things are a little cramped, but they should be safe regardless of what happens with Cobol."

"Good," Arthur says, although there's a hollow tone to his voice. "How was your flight?"

"No layovers, but I didn't sleep much."

"We'll see you in the morning, then."

Cobb smiles a bit as he says, "Sleep well, both of you."

Arthur returns the smirk and shuts the door in his face.

It's quiet for a moment in the aftermath, as Arthur turns back to her and Ariadne tries to reconcile the fact that she hasn't seen Cobb since he got off the plane in LAX with the normalcy of their conversation.

"It seems like the past few months have been good to him," Ariadne says finally, curling her toes against the bare carpet and wondering why she hadn't even bothered to slip on some shoes when she left her room.

"The inception changed everything for him," Arthur tells her.

"Good," she says, and then straightens. "I should probably be heading to bed, too—I'm not going to be able to make anything tomorrow if I don't get a couple hours of sleep between now and then."

He chuckles and then steals a kiss from her so quickly she hardly realizes what he's doing until it's over. "Pleasant dreams," he says, opening the door for her.

She steps out into the hallway and turns back to look at him. "At some point when I'm not half asleep we're going to need to talk about all of this."

He nods. "Goodnight, Ariadne."

"Goodnight, Arthur," she says, and wanders back to her room.

She tips her bishop, climbs into bed, and prays she won't regret everything in the morning.

She falls asleep quickly and doesn't dream.

* * *

She wakes up at 8:30 groggy but functioning, and makes it to the event hall to start on the detail work for the second dream by 9:00.

By 9:10 she is on her way back upstairs with a borrowed duffle bag and a voucher for a one o'clock flight to Las Vegas with Eames.

Arthur had barely paused to say 'Good morning' before handing her the bag and itinerary, and the rational part of her mind began to wonder if she had hallucinated the previous night. It might have been a viable explanation, except for the fifth desk that had magically appeared in the event hall and the argument she'd interrupted between Arthur and Eames about undermining authority and learning to not do things one's been told specifically not to do.

It all feels surreal and she wonders, as she tosses her new clothes into the bag, where the hell she's supposed to go from here.

She's almost grateful for the time away.

* * *

The surrealism lasts until they pass through the airport security.

She nods goodbye to Yusuf, who's twirling his car keys around his finger on the far side of the security barrier, and barely has time to sling her messenger bag over her shoulder and pick up her duffel before Eames pierces her thoughts.

"What did you do to Arthur?" he asks, collecting his own bag and falling into step beside her.

"What are you talking about?"

He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. "Don't play coy, love; you and Arthur were both late getting downstairs this morning, and he barely chewed me out over the fact that I called Cobb yesterday after he'd told me not to. Either you did something to him or he's picked up a drug habit and we should probably begin looking for a new point man."

"Maybe he's just happy to have Cobb on the team."

"Not unless he and Cobb have raised the intimacy level of their relationship sometime in the past couple months; a near-impossible feat given that Cobb's been in the States and Arthur holed himself up in Paris. Remind me again the name of the city you've been studying in all this time?"

"You're reading too much into it," she says, weaving through a team of soccer players all huddled, in their uniforms, around a map of the airport. "We just kissed."

"Kissed like quick-peck-on-the-cheek kissed, or more than that?"

"Does it matter?"

"Less so now that your avoiding has given me the answer, but it's important to know these things."

"Why?"

They step into the alcove of chairs outside their gate and pick their way between the waiting passengers to a pair of unoccupied seats.

Eames drops into one before responding. "Because I need to know where his loyalties lie. Both your loyalties, for that matter, but especially his. If things go bad on this job I need to know if our point man will work toward the best interest of the team, or if he's going to start changing the rules half way through."

"He's still Arthur," she says, fishing out her tickets from the bottom of her book bag. "I don't think anything on the planet can change that."

"Maybe not," Eames shrugs. He begins to say something else, but his phone goes off and he spends the rest of the time prior to take off talking agitatedly in the same African language Ariadne recognizes from the previous afternoon.

She stares out the window and tries not to let her thoughts wander past the job to the expanse of time after.

It's hard with Eames' voice in her ears.


	9. Chapter 9

_Oh gosh, this story now has over a hundred reviews. It's incredible and just a bit terrifying that so many of you are willing to take the time to respond to my work. Thank you all so much!_

_Sorry about the lateness of this chapter and it's filler-heavy nature. The good news is I finally got my computer back, but my chapter production time probably won't speed up for a while because the place where I work has been swamped and it looks like I'll be working overtime for the next few weeks to get things taken care of. Hopefully it won't slow me down too much, but I apologize in advance for making you guys wait!_

_~M._

The flight attendants have to ask him four times—once in Spanish, three times in English, to please end his call so they can tell the pilot they're ready for takeoff, before Eames finally snaps his phone shut and glares toward the window.

"It's bad, isn't it?" Ariadne asks.

He laughs once, the sound little more than a sharp exhale, and runs a hand over his face. "Yes," he says."Yes, it's bad."

She doesn't know what to say to him as the flight attendants explain proper plane procedure and demo the safety equipment.

She doesn't know what to say until he glances over at her and smiles. "I think you look more worried than I do right now," he tells her. "It'll be alright, Ariadne. I've been in tough scrapes before, this one just needs a bit of new perspective."

She's not sure if he picked it up from Arthur or if Arthur picked it up from him or if it's coincidence, but they both lie the same way—with a quick, smooth sort of confidence in their words, and smiles that don't quite reach their eyes. She wants to challenge it, show that she can read him well enough to tell the difference between the truth and his version of it, but she's not sure how badly he needs the myth he's created.

"I've still got my apartment in Paris," she says finally. "If you need somewhere to go when this is all over, I wouldn't mind a roommate."

He chuckles. "Thanks, but I think I'll need somewhere a bit harder to find than France. Besides, if things keep going the way they're going I wouldn't be the only one trying to move into your flat, and I'm not sure our dear Arthur would appreciate having me as a third wheel."

"That's the last time I tell you anything about my personal life," she says, but she can hardly maintain her annoyance as his smile turns genuine.

"Too soon? Or is it that you're one of those conservatives who wants a ring before playing bedmates? I could point Arthur in that direction—help him buy a ring, maybe get him an extra fancy suit to propose in. He seems to look best in browns or blues, but if you'd prefer something else I'm sure we could run with it. A fedora, maybe."

"Maybe you're the one who's looking for a ring, judging by how intimately you seem to know Arthur's fashion needs."

"I'm a forger, love; it's my job to notice these sorts of details. Speaking of which,"—his voice drops and he shifts in his seat so that his back is to the window and his whole attention is on her—"I could use your disguise input. I've worked jobs that needed fake personas with Cobb and Arthur before, so they're fairly simple, and I can throw something together for Yusuf without too much trouble since he's not going to have much contact with the mark at all, so that leaves you."

"How do you want me disguised?" she asks, images of Veronica and Peter Browning meshing together unpleasently inside her mind.

"We'll definitely keep you female—we could honestly use another woman or two on the team, but I'll be doing forgeries through all the levels and none of the rest of our boys are secure enough in their masculinity to trade their balls for breasts, unfortunately—but we're going to need to change your age, your body type, skin, hair, eyes—the whole package, if you're alright with that."

"Sure. Just remember that I have no idea how to do any of it."

They're interrupted, briefly, by a stewardess taking drink orders. Eames asks for a beer and Ariadne requests red wine and is reminded of how wonderful it is not to be making this trip in coach. She'd only ever flown first class once before meeting the team, and that was only because thunderstorms had stranded her in New York for seven hours and the airline bumped her to first class to fill seats home to St. Louis when the storm passed.

She's pretty sure none of the rest of them have ever ridden in coach before, or at least not in a very long while.

"It's a bit like architecture, actually," Eames says as the stewardess sets down their drinks and visits the next row. "The only difference is that, rather than manipulating a dream's setting, you're manipulating your projection of your identity. I'll walk you through how to do it a few times before the job. I'm sure it'll be as easy as target practice for you."

"I was shit at hitting anything under pressure," she reminds him.

"So we'll get more practice in before the big day," he dismisses. "You're getting off topic; the tricky part of a disguise is deceiving the mark's subconscious. The human mind is fantastically programmed to spot inconsistencies in its surroundings. You've seen it with your architecture; change too much and the dreamer's subconscious will carve you up and serve you with a side of rice. With disguises you have to make sure that all the little idiosyncrasies that make up your new persona remain consistent, and since our point man is an insufferable bastard who doesn't understand the constraints of a two week deadline, that means that I won't have time to make them up for you. You need a foundation, a family member or close friend, to base your characteristics off of."

"What's wrong with just being me with a different body? Wouldn't that be the simplest?"

He shakes his head. "Inconsistencies—your personality's got to match your outward appearance, so I'm sort of counting on there having been some sort of influential woman in your life. In her thirties, maybe, or possibly a bit older if that's what we have to work with. Mother, sister, elementary school teacher—prolonged exposure at a younger age is best, because their characteristics will have made more of an impression on your subconscious. And you'll need to be on at least mildly decent terms with this person because negative emotions would make a muck of things. Anybody lighting up for you yet?"

"Not my mom," she says.

"Trouble at home?"

She shrugs. "We just never really saw eye to eye."

"Alright. Who else?"

"My aunt came to live with us for a few years just after I started kindergarten, she might work."

"You two hit it off and all that?"

"Close enough."

"We'll make it work, then," he says. "What do you remember about her?"

They talk until Ariadne can't keep her eyes open anymore.

* * *

She doesn't wake up until they're circling Las Vegas, and then it's only because Eames has to put his tray table up and the movement jostles her head from its place on his shoulder.

She tells him she doesn't remember falling asleep, and he laughs and tells her he'll let her pay the dry cleaning bill for his shirt.

She switches her phone off airplane mode when they land and fights to suppress the disappointment she feels when the screen shows zero missed calls.

* * *

They have reservations at the Bellagio. At some point on the taxi ride between the airport and the Vegas strip she realizes that everything she knows about Vegas in general and this hotel in particular is based on three viewings of "Oceans 11". She's guessing that won't help her much.

Eames leads the way from the taxi to the front desk, and again from the front desk up to their rooms, and Ariadne stares at the architecture and interior decorations like a tourist and tries to memorize the feel of it all. The itinerary Arthur handed her gave them one night in Vegas and then two in Cairo to sneak a visit to Whelan's home before heading back to Venezuela, and as she tries to imagine constructing a building like this on her own she begins to get a taste of Eames' panic about the lack of time.

"Game plan," Eames says as they step into the elevator beside an elderly Chinese couple. "We'll go upstairs, dump our stuff, maybe change if you want, then head to the casino and let you have a go at the main games."

"Wouldn't it be quicker to just watch them being played?"

"Maybe, but you've got to know the games for yourself if you're going to recreate them. Anything out of the ordinary will tip Whelan off."

"Got it."

"That'll probably be all we'll have time for tonight, so tomorrow is our day to hit as many of the casinos as possible, give you a taste of their style and layout. Arthur said Whelan's partial to the Bellagio, Mandalay Bay, and Caesar's Palace, so just mix their styles together and you'll be golden."

The elevator dings on floor twenty-two, and they step out onto carpet so thick Ariadne can feel the softness of it through her shoes.

"Sounds good," she says, as they follow the wall plaques through the maze of hallways leading to their rooms.

"And try to enjoy yourself, love;" Eames adds. "This may be your last vacation ever, depending on how the job works out."

She swipes her keycard in her door and turns to look at him. "Don't ever let anyone try to hire you as a motivational speaker. You don't have the knack."

He grins at her. "See you in ten?"

"Sure," she says, and shuts the door behind her.

* * *

She learns to play blackjack and roulette and the type of poker they play in casinos, which is, she learns, very different from the poker that she was taught by friends in high school. She loses enough money to buy herself another new wardrobe, but Eames insists that losing is part of the experience. "You've got to know how to make it real, which means you've got to know that the house always wins. Now come try the slot machines."

She also learns that without windows or an ebb in the flow of guests there's no real way to judge time inside a casino. It's 11:30p.m. before hunger forces them to grab dinner, and it's somewhere around one when Ariadne finally climbs into bed.

It's 3:42a.m. when her phone begins buzzing across the nightstand.

She knows before she reaches for it, somewhere in the deep of her groggy mind she knows who it will be.

"Hello?"

"Is Eames with you?" Arthur's voice has all the sharp precision of his call in the library.

"He's in his room, what's wrong?" she asks as she flips on the light and checks her arms for new needle marks. There's nothing there, but it doesn't help the déjà vu.

"Whelan's surgeon had a patient postpone their operation," He says. "He gave Whelan the spot. We're working this job in six days."

A tremor runs down her spine. The room begins to wobble around her.

"Ariadne?"

"I'm still here," she breathes.

"I rebooked your flight—you and Eames will be on the 8:10a.m. to Cairo. The rest of us will meet you there."

She tries to force her half-awake brain to figure out what time they need to leave the hotel in order to make their flight, and all she can come up with is 'soon.'

"Arthur," she says after she realizes that he's waiting for her to say something.

"Yes?"

"This isn't going to work. We don't have enough time."

He sighs, and she can almost guarantee that he's running a hand over his hair. "Dom and I are trying to abbreviate the plan so it'll be ready in time. We'll come up with something."

"Okay." She's not sure she believes him, but she's also not sure telling him so would help anything.

"Do you want me to call Eames?" he asks.

"No, I'm up, I can tell him."

"Alright. Call if you need anything."

"We'll be on the plane most of the time, but we'll let you know if something comes up."

"Good." He pauses before adding, "Take care of yourself, please."

The words are smooth and his voice doesn't falter at all, which makes the way her stomach twists that much more ridiculous.

"You too."

She listens, for one pathetic moment, to the silence in her phone after he cuts the call. Then she pulls on her jeans and heads for Eames' door.


	10. Chapter 10

_Life's been one big ball of crazy in my corner of the world, but your reviews have been the thing that's kept me tapping away at the keyboard when I should be sleeping or working._

_Thanks so much for your patience and responses, they are, as always, incredibly appreciated._

_~M._

She has to knock six times before Eames answers the door. He's shirtless and half asleep, and as he takes in the sight of her standing outside his doorway, his expression flickers between annoyance and confusion before landing on something darker.

"What happened?" he asks.

"Arthur called; Whelan's surgery is happening in six days. We have an eight a.m. flight to catch."

"He doesn't," Eames pauses, rubs one eye with the palm of his hand, and begins again. "They can't possibly be stupid enough to still be planning to go through with it."

"Arthur said he and Cobb are working on revising the plan."

"No amount of revising will make up for a lack of time," he seethes.

"Trust me," she says. "I know."

"What the hell do they expect us to do in six bloody days?" It sounds like the first line of a very long list of things he wants to say, but his monologue curtails itself and his expression softens as he watches her shift her weight from one bare foot to the other.

"Sorry," he says. "You're just as screwed by all this as I am. I've got some packing to do and some phone calls to make. How about I meet you back at your room in half an hour, give or take a bit?"

She nods. "Sure. Just don't let it get too much later or we'll miss our flight."

"Don't worry, love; unlike some people, I understand how little time we have."

She snorts at his words and gives him a small grin. He returns it before shutting the door between them.

She makes it back to her room before wondering who he has to call at this time of night.

* * *

Eames falls asleep in the taxi, the terminal, and the first class cabin, with short bouts of lucidity in between. Ariadne buys the largest coffee she can find in the airport and sketches floor plans and interiors until her eyes stop focusing. She writes herself reminders about the details of the casino around the edges of her sketchpad and promises herself that, if she makes it through this job alive, she'll rent a five star hotel room somewhere and sleep for a week straight.

* * *

She doesn't remember falling asleep, but the flight attendant who shakes her shoulder and politely tells her to return her seat to its upright position for the landing proves otherwise. She pulls her water bottle—filled in the airport terminal, because she's finally getting the hang of airport security—out of her book bag and tries to wash the morning breath from her mouth as Eames stretches in his seat and almost smacks the side of her head.

"I've missed Africa," he says, voice distorted by a yawn. "But this isn't exactly how I imagined myself coming back."

"Maybe you can show me around after this is all over," she says, putting her bottle back in her bag and buckling her seatbelt for the landing.

"You wouldn't want me to show you Egypt—I've only been here once and I spent half the time drunk. If you were interested in seeing somewhere farther south, though, that might be something we could arrange. Provided you weren't too busy with other things." He smirks at her for a moment before raising the window blind and watching the ground slope up to meet them.

She looks at his hunched shoulder, at the sharp-set angles in the part of his face she can see, and all she can hear is his voice in the first dream of the Fischer job when Cobb let the truth about the sedation slip. She wants, abruptly and irrationally, to grab his arm and tell him that they need him on the team, that whatever his thoughts on the stakes being raised yet again, she needs his imagination and his nonchalance and his obnoxious little smirk to keep her on her feet.

It scares her, not because her mind is jumping to outlandish next-moves—she's been through enough bouts of insufficient sleep to know the stages—but because she knows there's some part of his brain that believes in self-preservation, and she's scared he's going to lose the will to suppress it.

She wonders if she should warn Arthur or Cobb, just in case.

She wonders if they already know.

* * *

They file off the plane, through customs, and out to the sea of people surrounding the baggage claim.

She tries not to lose sight of the light blue of Eames' dress shirt as she straightens herself to the limits of her height and peers through the crowd in search of a familiar face.

She almost jumps out of her skin when someone plants a hand on the small of her back and murmurs, "Keep walking, don't look around," in her ear.

The only thing that saves her is the familiarity of the voice.

"Arthur?"

"Shh," he whispers, pressing his fingertips into the right side of her back so that she curves left amid the swirl of bodies and noise. "We're being followed."

"Eames?" She hisses as the forger disappears from sight.

Arthur doesn't respond. He increases their pace until Ariadne's sure she'll trip over someone, and guides her out into the afternoon heat.

They step onto the long strip of sidewalk separating the airport from the stream of cars spitting out or sucking up passengers, and Arthur keeps their pace steady as he guides her up to what appears to be a father dropping off his son.

She doesn't recognize either of them, and from the brief, confused glances of the father and son, she's guessing that they aren't any more informed than she is.

The confusion in their eyes snaps to panic, and she glances toward the gleam of light and movement at her side to find that a gun has appeared in Arthur's free hand.

He keeps the pistol low, gesturing for the pair to step away from their vehicle without drawing the attention of the hundreds of other busy sidewalk inhabitants.

The son's expression flickers toward anger, but his father grabs his arm and drags him back from the car.

Without pausing, Arthur's hand slides from Ariadne's back down to the duffle in her grip. He wrenches it from her white knuckles and tosses it into the already open trunk, slamming it shut with a thud that snaps Ariadne back from the haze that being followed and toting a gun has erected in her mind.

He begins to press her forward toward the passenger seat, but her body finally catches up, darting ahead of his touch and dropping her into the car as he sweeps around to the driver's side.

Doors shut, seatbelts click, and the car eats away at the pavement beneath them.

"Sorry about that," Arthur says, adjusting the mirrors. "Cobb, Yusuf, and I been followed since we got off the plane. We're not sure if it's Cobol or the government or some other group that might take a vested interest in our work, but we've been having to improvise all afternoon."

Ariadne lets out the breath she feels as though she's been holding since he first found her. "Where are Cobb and Yusuf?"

"Cobb called me just over an hour ago to say that he thought he lost his tail and was on his way to our hotel, and Yusuf is hopping between taxis and public transportation trying to shake his followers."

"How many of them are there?"

"We estimate somewhere between four and six. We've been here for a bit over three hours, so the numbers may have fluctuated some."

"And we just left Eames to fend for himself?"

"I sent Eames a text before I grabbed you. He's always been resourceful in these sorts of situations."

She tucks some stray hairs behind her ear and glances in the mirror to see if she can identify which car it is that's tailing them. "So what do we do now?"

"Lay low, keep working, do the job, and get the hell out of here."

"How the hell do we work the job now? If those men are with Cobol—"

"If those men are with Cobol," he says, cutting her off. "Then they're probably just under the impression that we're shit at keeping off the grid. Remember, no one's done the type of job we're trying to work before, there's no reason why they should be suspicious of that."

She turns back to look at him. "Do you actually believe we can still pull this off?" She meant it to sound sarcastic, a dismissive sort of jab like the one that's been buzzing around in her head since his call in Vegas, but as the words pile on themselves in the silence, she realizes that it might be the most sincere thing she's ever asked him.

He glances at her, then back to the road, and then they're pulling into the closest parking lot on the street.

He cuts the engine and reaches for her face and his lips move against hers with a sort of harsh desperation that she's only ever felt from him once before. It's the sort of frenzy that she's beginning to wonder if she brings out in him, because it only ever seems to appear when his body is pressed against hers.

The need is addictive. She deepens the kiss, opening her mouth to him and sliding her hands up and around the back of his neck.

His fingertips raise lines of goose bumps on her skin as he brushes them over the thin material of her shirt and plants them on her hips. The angle of their seats in the car provides a challenge, one that makes her shiver when he has no trouble overcoming it.

They both gasp when he finally pulls away.

"We've done the impossible before," he says raising a hand to trace the edge of her face. "And this time we have a better shot at it, because this time it's not just Cobb who needs it to work."

His fingers finish their trip around her face by brushing over her lips, and then his hands drop back to the steering wheel.

She watches him watch the traffic around them, and wonders if good intentions are enough to make things work.

* * *

The casino is large and half-empty, but Ariadne is working on that. "How long do you think we have before whoever was following us finds us again?"

Eames licks his lips before responding. "With luck? Six days."

They're quiet for a moment as she redesigns the carpet and changes the style of the chairs. She needs his voice to keep the worry in her mind at bay, so she offers him the first observation she can think of. "I've never learned what your totem is," she says, trying to make her voice lilt in that annoying way of her aunt's. They haven't gotten to the actual disguise part yet, because Eames insists that she needs to get the mindset of being like her aunt down first.

He chuckles. "That's because I don't have one. Totems are just a security blanket Cobb's wife came up with, and with all respect due to the woman, they didn't work too well for her. I like that you've added a star theme to the ceilings in here, but the slot machines could use some work; maybe brighten the colors up a little."

She twists her imagination and the rows of slot machines light up with the hues of a Paris sunset. "So how do you keep track of the dream world?"

"It's easy if you know how," he says, and with a flick of his wrist he makes a poker chip appear between his fingers. "Only in here can you make something out of nothing. See?" He tosses the chip to her, then leans close and pulls another out from behind her ear.

She turns the poker chip over in her fingers, feeling the weight of the plastic in her palms. "If it's that easy than how did Mal get so disconnected?"

"Ah, that's the catch," he says, and tosses his chip into the air. Ariadne loses sight of it in the twinkling lights of the ceiling, and it doesn't reappear. "Because they exist in our minds, dreams are as real as we allow them to become. If you believe you are capable, for example, of willing the roulette wheels to move back a few yards so we can stick the poker tables over here, then it comes as no surprise when they start sliding across the carpet. You know this is a dream and you know you have power in dreams, so the tables move. If you begin to doubt either the existence of the dream or your own control over it you run into trouble. Your mind won't let you create anything if you believe you are incapable of doing so."

"So it's sort of a, 'I think, therefore I am' scenario?"

"Yes, except here the motto is, 'I self-empower, therefore I can do the impossible, provided I truly am in a dream.' It's a bit bulkier, which is probably why it hasn't caught on yet."

"So you have to force yourself to believe that you're in a dream at all times, then, even when you're awake."

"Sort of. I just have to doubt reality and believe my own delusions enough to conduct little tests, and be pleasantly surprised when they don't work."

"It doesn't seem like much of a safety net; you've already set yourself up to believe that all of reality is a dream."

"A very concerning thought, except that I'm not crushed by the idea of all reality being a dream".

"It still seems risky."

"Maybe, but I've never tried suiciding my way back to reality over it, no disrespect intended."

She shifts the positioning of the roulette wheels and adds a corner of poker tables before her thoughts weave themselves away from the dichotomy of reality and dreams. "How did you become a forger?"

He grins. "Basically the same way you became an architect, expect I started out as a conman stuck in a South African prison instead of a student at uni. A point man by the name of Franco bailed me out and taught me the basics. It's not much of a story, really; if you want to hear an interesting one you should pester our point man. He's like the Bruce Wayne of the extraction business."

She raises one eyebrow and he raises both of his own. "Bruce Wayne," he repeats. "Billionaire playboy, murdered parents, drives this thing called the Batmobile. Guess they don't read comic books or watch telly where you come from. Your boyfriend's got a good story, is what I'm trying to say."

"Don't call him my boyfriend."

"How about lover, then? Better-half? Honey bunny? Be careful with that glare; you look more like an insolent teen than a thirty-something school teacher who lives with her brother."

"_Lived_ with her brother."

"You knew her best when she was staying with you, so we'll be using the present tense. Don't slouch quite so much, and tuck your hair back behind your ears a little."

She moves her hair, straightens her shoulders, and adds a few details to the wallpaper before the soft jazz music of the casino fades beneath a rush of voices.

"It's not going to work. I've tried everything and it can't be done."

"So try something else."

"Oh, of course, I'll just invent a few new chemicals to feed your delusions."

"Stop it, both of you; we've come back from limbo before, we can work the job without it."

She opens her eyes, and her vision is filled with dark, slicked-back hair. Arthur glances up at her for half a second from his crouched position beside the nightstand, before slipping the needle from her arm. He rises, crosses to the other side of the bed, and does the same for Eames.

"Cobb's right," she says, voice raspy from sleep. "We can get back from limbo. He or I could go down ourselves if someone else falls under."

"No," Arthur shakes his head. "It's too much of a risk."

"This job was too much of a risk three days ago when we had sixteen days to do it," she says, pushing herself into a sitting position and tucking her feet beneath her body. "If we can get everything else ready in time we can deal with limbo. We'll be alright."

Arthur's expression darkens with an emotion she's not used to seeing on him—fear?—but Cobb speaks over him.

"Exactly. We'll make it work." He traverses the two steps that exist between the desk and the bed in the cramped hotel room and scans their faces. "We can do this."

Yusuf straightens from his tilt against the wall and moves forward to complete the circle. "If I get stuck in limbo I'm going to use the time to destroy everything you ever built down there."

"Fair enough."

Ariadne can feel the bed shift as Eames tenses, and she's back to the irrational desire to grab his shoulder and remind him that the job won't run without him.

The forger sighs. "You'd better make bloody well sure this is the smoothest job we've ever worked in our lives."

Cobb smiles. "No guarantees, but I'll try." His expression sobers as he turns to look at their point man.

Arthur fiddles with the PASIV and doesn't look up. "We'd better keep working," he says. "Who's going under next?"


	11. Chapter 11

_Many thanks for all of the reviews; you guys are wonderful._

_~M._

Six days becomes five days, and then they begin counting the time down in hours; day and night neutralized with drawn curtains and bright lights in the dingy, two-bed hotel room that was supposed to be Cobb's.

The first time Ariadne visits her own room is somewhere around hour ninety-eight. She closes her eyes for just a second and is magically transported from her place on Cobb's floor surrounded by sketches of floor plans and furniture to one of his beds. She blinks a few times, sits up, and tries to piece together how she ended up under the blankets and where her shoes went.

"There's coffee," Eames's voice tells her.

It takes her a moment to focus her eyes enough to spot him seated on the edge of the other bed, beside the open PASIV and the prone bodies of Arthur and Cobb.

"How long was I out for?" she asks.

"Two hours, give or take."

She nods, stands, and reaches for her book bag and duffel with the half-drunk, half-disoriented sensation of exhaustion where her muscles won't stop shivering because her body can't seem to find the energy to warm itself up.

"I'm going to go take a shower," she tells him, and adds a "Hi" to Yusuf when she realizes he's seated at the desk surrounded by chemistry equipment. "Do either of you know where my shoes went?"

"Arthur was kind enough to put them by the door before tucking you into bed," Eames says, face twisted up in a grin. "I'm somewhat surprised you didn't wake up, what with him picking pulling you off the floor and laying you out. Then again, he was very delicate, wouldn't you say, Yusuf?"

"I'd say it's a wonder he only took off your shoes," Yusuf mutters without looking up, though Ariadne is at the right angle to see the smirk pressed into his features.

She wishes she were awake enough for a scathing retort.

As it is, she rolls her eyes at them and crosses the room to wedge her feet into her sneakers without taking the time to retie them.

The door falls shut behind her with a bang.

* * *

Her room looks just like Cobb's, which, in turn, looks just like every other three-star, had-to-find-somewhere-to-crash-fast hotel room on the planet, with only minor differences in amenities and color schemes.

She drops her bags, strips off her clothes, and stands under the hot water of the shower until her body stops shaking and the bathroom mirror is completely fogged. She runs shampoo-coated fingers through her hair and the neurons in her brain paint pictures of bedrooms and board meetings and the bitter desperation of Arthur's expression in the instant before his lips met hers in the car on the way to the hotel.

She is scared. She can admit that to herself here in the isolation of her own room. Scared because she knows her limitations, knows there's not enough time, knows none of the others have found a way to simplify their objective in any quantifiable way.

She has other fears too, ones that she won't let herself dwell on as they flitter through her mind. Fears of the future, the what-if, the could-have-been. The fear that time is running out, and that she's spending it focused on the wrong objectives. The fear that this would all be easier if it wasn't for one stupid point man who can't seem to keep his lips to himself and doesn't seem to understand the way he's worming inside her brain and rewiring her thoughts and emotions and all the straightforward, cut-and-dry plans she's laid out for herself.

The fear that she'll lose him before she ever even got to have him.

She cranks the hot water until it scalds her skin and sterilizes her mind. Soap, shaving cream, razor, conditioner. She thinks about the smell of cheap skin care fragrances and the pruning of her fingers and toes until she shuts off the shower and reaches for a towel.

Her skin is red and blotchy. The dark crescents beneath her eyes are sharp enough to be seen through the steam on the mirror. There's a very small, very stupid part of her mind that wonders what Arthur will think of her ragged appearance.

In retaliation she rakes her hair—still wet—back into a tight bun and pulls on the most wrinkled collection of clothes in her bag.

She knows there's not enough time for distractions.

She slips on her messenger bag and sneakers, and heads back down the hall to Cobb's room.

* * *

"The first trick to changing your appearance is finding a mirror. You're the architect, so you already know where they all are in this little excursion, but if you ever find yourself needing a disguise in a strange dream, the first thing you should do is look for a bathroom or hotel room, although, in a pinch, you should be able to use windows, bodies of water, picture frames, kitchen knives, doorknobs; just about anything that'll reflect an image will work."

She nods at their reflections in the ninth-floor women's bathroom of the Hong Kong branch of Cobol Engineering and doesn't mention that there's almost no chance of her ever getting to do this again.

"The second trick is to rearrange what your reflection looks like. It should feel just like rearranging a room, except with an image instead of a setting."

Eames' reflection shrinks, and the image in the mirror becomes a small boy with dark eyes and skin and hair.

Ariadne glances between the boy in the mirror and the man at her side, and both smile at her.

"The third trick, and this is the one that most people struggle with, is to believe the truth of the reflection, accept it, and let it change the reality of the dream."

There is no transition. One moment it's Eames standing beside her, and the next moment it's the boy from the mirror. He turns a wide grin to her, and when he speaks it's with a voice too young and too strangely accented to be Eames'. "See?"

"I think so."

"Good, because it's your turn." The boy spins around and hops up on the edge of the countertop, swinging his legs.

Ariadne studies herself in the mirror—the combed back hair, the wrinkled clothes, the hollowed eyes that her mind has done such a wonderful job projecting into the dream world—and tries to remember everything about her aunt. The woman wasn't tall—five-foot one, five-foot two, maybe—and she had mountains of tight brown curls and a big smile. The smaller details are harder—the shade of her eyes, the curve of her ears, the slender lines of her body, but Ariadne gathers it all together, and, when she thinks she's ready, projects it onto the mirror.

Her aunt blinks back at her from behind the glass.

"Nice job," the boy tells her. "You're half way there."

She nods again, and forces herself to think back to waking up in the library, to the phone call from Arthur and the pinprick in her arm and the sensation of believing the impossible because the evidence forces you to believe.

She glances down, and her aunt's delicate fingers smooth the soft skirt of her sundress.

The boy whistles and claps his hands. "That was bloody fantastic. Most people can't do it on their first try, much less do it that smoothly. Bloody hell; let's go show Cobb and Arthur."

He hops off the counter and starts toward the door, but there's something about the way her aunt's fingers move and curl and flex that keeps Ariadne from following.

The boy sighs dramatically and stomps back to her side. His small hand latches onto one of her sleeves and he half guides, half drags her out into the hall.

The movements feel foreign to her; her whole body is out of proportion and she stumbles to keep pace with the child at her side.

"You're going to want to make a left up here if you're heading for the conference room," her aunt's voice tells him.

He laughs, shakes his head, and mutters "fantastic" again as they veer left.

Projections in dark suits pass them on their way down the hall. Each one offers a scowl or a glare at the odd duo invading their business day.

The boy sticks his tongue out at each one as they stalk past, and giggles when their expressions darken.

"Are you trying to make them suspicious?" Ariadne hisses at him.

"Not entirely, although you could probably use a bit more target practice before the big day."

"I'm not sure we have time for it. Next door on your right."

"Got it. Nice job on the solid oak," he says, pulling open the door and dragging her inside.

Arthur and Cobb look up from a mountain file folders with mixed expressions of concern.

"It's us," the boy says in Eames' voice, before switching back to his own. "Look at this; she did this in under a minute."

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Impressive."

The boy shakes his head and releases his grip on Ariadne's sleeve. He drops into one of the chairs around the conference table that takes up most of the space in the room. "No, it's not; it's bloody brilliant is what it is. Show some respect for the art."

"It's very impressive," Arthur amends. "As is this dreamscape."

"Thanks," says Ariadne. "What are you two working on?"

Cobb meets her gaze. "Logistics. Out in the real world we've already paid off the hospital staff, and the surgeon's told us that he can keep Whelan under for four hours and blame it on 'complications.' If things go well, they should be done with the surgery in an hour and a half."

"Which would give us two and a half hours to work this thing," Ariadne guesses.

"Give or take a bit," Arthur says.

The boy in the chair looks at him incredulously. "Can we do it in two and a half hours?"

Arthur gestures at the stack of folders covering the table. "That's what we're working on."

"But it's not why we're here," Cobb adds. "Ariadne, if you'd oblige us with a tour?"

"Sure," she says, and her aunt's body leads them through the building's maze until the time runs out.

* * *

It's Arthur she sees first; Arthur in profile, stretched out on the bed beside her.

His eyes snap open and he turns to look at her, raising a hand to brush his fingers over the contours of her face.

The air fills with voices as Cobb and Eames join them back in reality. The sound breaks whatever spell has bewitched him, and the point man shifts away from her, rolling off the bed and to his feet in one precise move, and unhooking the IV from his arm in a second.

And, just like that, he forces her back into the fear of not having enough time.


	12. Chapter 12

_Many, many thanks for your comments and critiques; please keep them coming! :) _

_No promises just yet, but I'm pretty sure the actual job will begin in the next chapter. In the meantime, I have another question for you guys: how does the limbo dream level differ from the other levels apart from being unstructured? It's a big threat throughout the movie (and to a smaller degree in this story, which is why I've been doing a lot of thinking about it) but you get out of it the same way you get into it (death) so what makes it terrifying (apart from the time lag and fact that you tend to forget you're still dreaming)? I've sort of blocked out some ideas in my mind, but I really want to hear your opinions before I set anything in stone._

_~M._

They're nearing hour sixty-two, and the team has begun to look like heroin addicts with their hollow eye sockets, their disheveled clothing, their puncture-laced arms. It wouldn't be so bad, Ariadne thinks, but Eames is off studying up on his forgeries for the job, and without him the tone of the room slides from strained optimism to straight tension, The silence is only interrupted by quick arrangements for who's going under the somnacin next.

She's charting out the final details of the second dream level when Cobb fords her moat of sketches and three-dimensional floor plans, and joins her on the floor.

"We need to get you inside Whelan's home and we're running out of time." He tells her. "How do you feel about sneaking in?"

He delivers the words flawlessly, and she wonders how many times he repeated them to himself before now.

She wonders if he thought the wording would somehow counteract the fact that they're short days away from hooking themselves up in the hospital room, and all Ariadne has for the final dream level are blueprints of Whelan's house.

"I can't do it; there's not enough time," she tells him, leafing through her piles of sketches and trying to ignore Arthur and Yusuf's sidelong glances. "I had some ideas for a hotel suite we could put him in instead."

Cobb shakes his head, "The job could be compromised if he does't buy the scene we create for him. The field research will only take a few hours, and I can help you with the construction when we get back."

She looks up at him, and the papers in her hand spill back over the floor.

Arthur finds his voice before she does. "It's been over two years since you gave up architecture."

"I know," Cobb says. "It'll still be Ariadne's project; I'll just help with the detail work."

She doesn't know what to say to him; she needs him if she's going to build something Whelan knows so intimately, but Cobb's added things to her designs before, and they've only ever been a detriment.

"What about Mal?" she asks finally.

"I haven't seen her since the inception," he says, gaze not quite meeting hers. "I think I've finally made peace with her."

She glances at Arthur, and the point man runs a hand over his hair. "This isn't a test, Dom; we don't have room for you to fail."

"I know," Cobb says. "And I'm not going to." He turns back to Ariadne. "Are you alright with this?"

She's not, but they're out of time. "Okay."

"Good." He rises to his feet and reaches down a hand to pull her up beside him. "Go clean yourself up; we want to look like we know what we're doing."

"Sure," she says. "See you in the lobby in half an hour?"

He nods, and she starts toward back toward her own room. She's never been much for religion, but she sends up a few prayers to whatever deities might be listening. She wishes there was a way to know if they can hear her.

* * *

He's sitting on one of the cream couches in the lobby when she comes down. His eyes are closed and his head is lolled slightly to the side. It makes him look young, younger than she's ever seen him before. She feels bad waking him, so it's a relief when he snaps awake at her approach.

His eyes age him ten years easily.

"You ready?" he asks, rising from his seat.

"I'd probably be more so if I knew the game plan, but yeah."

"The first step," he tells her softly as he falls into step beside her. "Is to make sure we don't have a tail."

The hairs on the back of her neck prickle, and she glances around as they step out into the Egyptian heat and Cobb asks the valet for his car. There are people everywhere; darting to and from their cars, loitering on the pavement, chatting in the lobby. People in traditional clothing, in business suits, in shorts and halter tops. People working and vacationing and living out their lives like people do. She doesn't know what she's looking for, and the more she watches the more she feels that there's something to these people, something she doesn't have.

It's an instance of clarity, a quick construction of the puzzle she's been fiddling with since her first shared dream. She's grateful, almost, that this job is sure to end in tragedy; she's no longer capable of living out a normal life. She belongs in the dream world or not at all.

"Ariadne?"

She jolts at the sound of her name, and glances up to where Cobb is frowning at her from the far side of a small navy sedan.

"Sorry," she says quickly, stepping forward and sliding into the passenger seat. "I'm a little tired."

"You can sleep in the car if you'd like; we're going to take some detours before we get to Whelan's."

She dismisses the idea as he climbs in beside her and starts the car. Time is short enough without that.

Her resolve doesn't last past the first stoplight.

* * *

She wakes to the sound of Cobb's voice. It takes her a moment to realize that he's talking to a speaker set in a brick post as the car idles in front of meticulously trimmed hedges and a black metal gate.

"No, I know we don't have an appointment," he says, in a tone that implies the conversation has been going on for some time now. "Your security system's been sending us error messages. It's standard procedure to send someone out to fix the bug."

"I've worked for Mr. Whelan for four years now, and I've never heard of this procedure," a feminine voice with a thick accent crackles through the mike.

"That's not surprising," Cobb tells her, glancing down at the manila folder in his lap. "You've only had your current system since January of last year; so far there haven't been any bugs." There's a pause, before he adds, "Look, would you prefer for me to give Mr. Whelan a call on his cell and have him sort this whole thing out himself?"

There's a pause, before the voice says, "Just a moment, I'll buzz you through."

The gate rumbles on its hinges and opens wide, revealing a long driveway leading up to one of the sleekest modern mansions Ariadne has ever seen.

She straightens her clothes and wipes the sleep from her eyes. "What have I missed?"

"We're employees of ELP, one of Egypt's most elite lines of home security," Cobb says, handing her the file. "Whelan has keypads set up in all of the main entrances to his home, as well as one in the master bedroom. That's our in."

She leafs through the folder and tries to get a feel for the part she's about to play. "This is really thorough, although it's less sneaky than I'd expected."

"Arthur's good at forming plans in a pinch. We just need to keep enough of a low profile that no one brings this up with Whelan. There are security cameras all over this property; if he watches the feed and sees our faces it's all over."

"Where is Whelan now?"

"Vegas," he says, parking the car. "He wanted to do something relaxing before the surgery."

"Thank goodness for small favors, then."

He glances at her, and she can see the thrill of the job in his eyes just before he opens the car door and steps onto the drive.

She closes the folder, tucks it under her arm, and hurries to follow.

They make it halfway to the porch before the front door opens, revealing a surly looking woman in an outfit that reminds Ariadne of Halloween parties, where it's an unspoken requirement to have at least one French maid.

"I'd like to see some documentation," the woman tells them without preamble.

"Of course," Cobb says, his face warming with a broad smile. His gaze slides to Ariadne for an instant, as she realizes that she's still got the folder clutched to her side. "My name is Charles, by the way," he adds, holding out his hand to the woman.

She doesn't take it.

Ariadne flips open the folder and pulls out the first packet of papers. She finds herself incredibly grateful for Arthur's relentless need for organization. "Here's the information that we have on Mr. Whelan's account with us, as well as specs about his system and the errors we've received recently."

The woman takes her time reading through the packet, and Ariadne has to stop herself several times from fidgeting with the folder in her hands.

"You two are American," the woman says at last, meeting their gazes once again. "What are you doing in Cairo?"

Cobb chuckles. "The same as every other American working in Egypt; trying to make a living while seeing the history."

Her expression doesn't change, but the woman turns and steps back inside the entryway.

"Take off your shoes," she says without turning. "It's easier to switch security system providers than it is to get mud out of five hundred year old rugs."

They both hurry to comply.

* * *

There are four main entrances to Whelan's home, and at each one Cobb punches random buttons on the keypad and spits out jargon while Ariadne nods and scribbles down notes about the architecture of the house. By the time they walk up the grand staircase and down the hall that leads to Whelan's bedroom her hand is cramping and she can feel the blood pounding behind her eyes.

They slip through the black double-doors and Cobb taps a few numbers on the keypad in passing before giving up all pretense of their cover. Ariadne pulls out her phone and begins snapping pictures of the white walls and dark furniture as he digs through drawers and runs his fingers over everything.

There's too much. Ariadne knows it from the second she steps into the room. She plays those three words like a mantra through her mind even as she helps Cobb draw the curtains and fiddle with the light switches to get a sense of how the room would look in the light of the digital alarm clock numbers, in the light of one bedside lamp, in the light of the overhead. She knows it absolutely, and yet she can't fight the elation that's bubbling in her chest.

She hasn't built anything from memory since Cobb told her it was dangerous. There's a part of her that's dying to see if she can do it.

"Okay," Cobb says, breaking the silence. "Time's up."

They find the surly woman and tell her that everything checked out and there shouldn't be any more trouble with the security.

She doesn't thank them.

The ride to the car rental company where they pick up a different car under a different name—just in case—and again from the rental company to the hotel is a hurricane of observations. Cobb focuses on things like textures and color palettes, while Ariadne details the shape of the furniture and the type and number of knickknacks.

They nearly have it worked into a game by the time they climb out of the car and tip the valet. She hopes against hope that it's some kind of good omen; a sliver of possibility that they may actually pull this one off.


	13. Chapter 13

_Thank you all for your explanations about limbo (they were much needed and incredibly helpful) and for your reviews. I also want to give a shout-out to Efcia, Saourise, and the rest of you who write me novel-length feedback; your analyses of my version of the characters and plot are fantastic and humbling and they drive me to keep writing. Thank you._

_~M._

Ariadne trails her fingers over the dark cherry of the bed frame and realizes that she's holding her breath. She reminds herself for the umpteenth time that perfect things aren't always fragile things, and that it will take more than air to shatter this illusion.

"We did it," she whispers.

"Yes we did," Cobb says, looking up from the contents of one of the dresser drawers to smile at her. The smile is wide and disarming and plastered to his lips as he stands and takes a step toward her.

She roots her feet to the floor and tries not to think of ventriloquist dummies.

"Listen," he says, and the smile sags from his face, leaving the deep lines of exhaustion and worry that calm her with their familiarity. "I told you during the preparations for the Fischer job that all you had to do was build for us; you didn't have to go under. I know things have changed since then, but you've completed your part in all this; you have the opportunity to walk away right now and not look back."

"I've already said I was in this for the long haul."

"I know," he says. "But the stakes keep rising and I want to be sure that you're not basing this decision on some sense of duty or affection for the team or anyone on it. It's dangerous to let your emotions color your decisions in this line of work. I know that better than anyone."

The last of his words drop to a monotone, and she knows they're both thinking of Mal right now.

"I appreciate your concern," she says, trying to keep her voice light without being flippant. "But I know the risks. You couldn't get rid of me the last time around, and I'm pretty sure you're not going to be able to now."

"I didn't think I would, but I told Arthur I'd ask, just in case."

"What?"

He doesn't have time to answer before the room shivers and disappears.

"How'd it go?" Arthur asks as Ariadne's fingers fiddle with her IV line while her mind fiddles with Cobb's words.

"We got it," the extractor says, sitting up beside her.

Arthur's fingertips brush against her own as he takes the needle from her outstretched hand. "All of it?"

"Whelan could spend a full day in there and never spot an anomaly."

"Oh good." The voice causes Ariadne's head to jerk up. Eames grins at her as he leans against the edge of the desk, firmly planted as though he'd never left. "Now you just have to teach it to me."

* * *

The main entrance to the hospital is a monochrome of white walls above white tile. Ariadne counts the chairs and people as she moves from the automatic doors to the elevator and hopes the vase of flowers in her hands is large enough to obscure her face from the security cameras. She makes it inside the steel cube and has her finger on the button for the fifth floor before a shout for her to hold the elevator makes her pause.

"Thank you," Yusuf gasps in an exaggeration of his accent as he scurries in beside her, a hat pulled low over his eyes. "Floor five, please."

She nods, the door closes, and they both stare straight ahead like strangers for the sake of the camera in the upper right corner.

When the door opens again they step out and Yusuf hurries off down a hall while Ariadne walks toward the closest nurses' station and wishes she'd had more time to practice the Arabic phrases Eames had tried to teach her.

She scraps that plan half way to the desk and hopes one of the nurses knows English.

"Hi," she says, smiling around the flowers at the woman perched in the desk chair. "I'm a friend of Alexander Whelan and I think he might still be in surgery, but I was hoping I could drop these flowers off in his room."

The woman taps something into the computer in front of her before looking up. "Down that hallway, sixth door on the left; room 5203."

Ariadne thanks her and heads down the hall, focusing her energy on keeping her pace at a walk. She counts five doors and slips behind the sixth one, into a vacant room already flooded with bouquets and cards. She adds her flowers to a small table in the corner, and pulls a pair of green scrubs from the backpack Eames gave her to complete her disguise for the day. She uses the shirt to wipe away any fingerprints on the sides of the vase before stripping to her underwear and pulling on the hospital clothes.

She ties her hair back before stuffing her original outfit into the backpack and stepping toward the door on the far side of the room.

The advantage of working the job in a building like this, Arthur had explained to them in Cobb's hotel room as he unrolled blueprints of the hospital, is that the Dean of Medicine had signed off on haphazard additions to the building as the need for more space grew. She steps through the door into the back of a broom closet, where she tosses her bag onto a dark shelf before crossing the closet and coming out in a hallway where the doors are numbered in the high five thousands.

She keeps her head down as she speed-walks to the door set in the far end of the hallway. It's marked with a large 'No Visitors Beyond This Point' sign repeated in seven different languages. As she moves forward, the automatic doors shiver and slide open for her.

Arthur is waiting on the far side in a white doctor's coat and glasses.

He slides a clipboard into her hands before turning and leading the way through a new maze of corridors. "Run into any trouble on the way up?"

She rolls her shoulders and glances through the medical jargon on the board. "It all went smoothly. Are the others here yet?"

"Everyone except Cobb."

"Have you heard from him?"

"Not yet." Arthur pushes open a door and they step from the calm into the storm.

It takes Ariadne a moment to make sense of all the bodies darting and pacing and slouching around the room. She picks through the faces first for Yusuf and Eames and doesn't stop until she spots both of them leaning against a wall opposite her. The two are wearing scrubs of their own and similar looks of focused concern. In between her and them is a sea of four nurses and two doctors that keeps splashing up against a hospital bed island at the center of the room.

Whelan is shorter and broader than she had imagined from his pictures, but he still looks almost sickeningly vulnerable stretched out above the white sheets of his bed.

"What happened to him?" she whispers to Arthur.

"Nothing, the surgery went fine. He's just a high profile patient, so the hospital wants to make sure nothing goes wrong."

"Nothing other than us, you mean."

She can feel his eyes boring holes through her left temple.

"The door's still open, Ariadne. You still have time to walk away from this."

She folds back the top sheet on the clipboard in her hands and her sketches of the dream levels stare back at her. "I told you and I told Cobb and now I'm telling you again; I'm staying."

His eyes are working their way through her head. His eyes are playing with her brain matter. But she won't let herself look up, because she's not stupid enough to think that meeting his gaze will do anything but knot her stomach and scramble her thoughts, and she doesn't need either right this second.

The door behind her opens with a click and a small puff of air, and Cobb joins the disarray in his own white coat.

"What kept you?" Arthur asks.

Ariadne can feel the exact instant his eyes leave the side of her head.

"Seven people from a freeway pile up arrived at the ER the same time I did," Cobb explains. "It took me a bit to convince the staff down there that I didn't have time to stay and help. How's Whelan?"

"Fine," the answer comes from one of the doctors, who steps over to them with sharp strides. "Mr. Whelan will remain under anesthesia for a little over two hours. I assume your work will be done by that time?"

Arthur nods. "Thank you. We're ready whenever Whelan is."

The doctor returns the nod and, as though it's some medical signal, the staff turns and begins filing through the door until he's the only one left.

"Be careful," the man warns, his accent drawing out the words. "If something happens to my patient it will be on your heads."

Arthur smiles one of his reassuring smiles that could sooth lost children and sate axe murders. "He'll be perfectly fine, Doctor; you have my word."

The man looks at each of them, eyes tracing expressions and features, before he sighs and leaves them alone with Whelan's limp form.

Everything is still and silent for a moment. Then Arthur barks, "Move," and they're dragging chairs forward, retrieving a familiar silver briefcase from the cupboard under the sink in the corner, and settling into their places.

Arthur sets the PASIV on the nightstand beside Whelan's bed and passes out IVs before inserting Whelan's and then his own.

The image reminds Ariadne, vaguely, of deflated party balloons and parade floats that have begun to lose their helium; all of them sitting stiff and breathless, tied together by little plastic ribbons in the moment of just before.

Arthur glances around the circle, and Ariadne half expects some sort of moving speech or jolting last words.

Arthur places his finger on the plunger and says, "Three, two, one."

The electric stars twinkle in the ceiling far overhead, and the blend of jazz music and human voices fill Ariadne's ears. She looks at her reflection, distorted in the curved metal edge of a slot machine, and focuses until her aunt's image smiles back at her. Something curls around her hand, and she glances down and follows the line of the fingers entwined with her aunt's up a tanned arm to the ragged blue surf shop t-shirt and long blond hair of their owner.

He grins at her like a Malibu Ken doll and says, "Okay, baby, what do you want to do first?"

She doesn't know how to answer. For all the times they ran through the dream levels and the game plan and the objective, they never practiced this.

His brows draw together at her silence and he lifts his free hand to brush his fingers from her temple to her chin.

It's not Arthur's hand or his voice or his body, but the way his fingers whisper over her skin with such delicate precision is familiar. It's enough to snap her into character.

She smiles at him and her aunt's voice titters before saying, "I was thinking maybe you could teach me how to play roulette."

He chuckles and pulls her off toward the wheels.


	14. Chapter 14

_Thank you all for the lovely reviews, and a special thank you to The Swim Chick for reading through the whole story in one go and flooding my inbox reviews for each chapter; you made my whole day._

_~M._

She can't stop watching him. From the way he slumps his shoulders as he walks to the way he rubs a hand over the stubble on his jaw to the way he shakes the hair from his ice blue eyes before launching into sentences peppered with "like" and "you know," she could swear that he's completely real. A completely real surfer boy with a completely real crush on her—because it may be her aunt's body, but it's still her eyes he's staring into and her cheek he's planting kisses on in between confusing explanations of Roulette. She's glad Eames already gave her a rundown of the game; her brain's already working in overdrive and there's no way she could focus on trying to learn the rules, too.

All she can focus on—really, if she's being honest inside her own mind—is herself. Because she knows he's not real, and she knows it's a front, and she knows—thinks she knows—that she's not the sort of girl who goes weak in the knees for boys who don't actually exist, not even if it's part of the role she's supposed to be playing. But there's something to the way he leans against her as he whispers the different strategies of Roulette that makes her heart pound and her cheeks warm.

She wonders if Arthur notices the effect he has on her.

She wonders if he knows it's not an act.

She wonders how embarrassed she should be by that fact.

They have a job, she tries to remind herself in between the electricity of his lips on her skin and the pounding of _not real, not real, not real_, in her brain; they are here as lookouts, and she's pretty sure she's doing a shit job of it so far.

She glances around, pointing out the size of the room and the sheer number of people in it like proper tourist while her mind notes that some of the projections have taken on roles as security guards for the casino. It's a smooth manipulation of Whelan's sub-security; the CEO's subconscious is tricked into believing everything is normal because it has the illusion of control over the situation. The team is safe just as long as they don't do anything that sets it off.

Whelan himself is seated about ten yards away at a poker table. She studies the hunched forms of the business-suited men sitting with him, trying to pick Eames out of the crowd. She watches until its clear she's not going to be able to spot him, and drags her eyes away.

The others are impossible to look for—she doesn't know much about Yusuf's disguise, only that he's somewhere standing in as a bar tender, ready to fix Whelan a drink the moment the man takes a second away from his game. Cobb is supposedly playing the part of a washroom attendant, the one who will be on site to offer a bottle of drugged water when Yusuf's drink causes Whelan to lose his lunch.

And their job—hers and Arthurs—is to monitor Whelan's projections and make sure they remain suspicious-free for as long as possible.

"So that's the game, baby," Arthur's disguise says, breaking into her thoughts. "Do you want to try?"

She laughs and crinkles her nose. "I don't think this is my kind of game," she tells him, trying to channel her aunt's characteristics. "I wouldn't mind watching you play, though."

He grins at her, one of those puppy dog smiles of the young and in love. She hates it. She hates the way he can make her breath hitch with one stupid look. She hates the fact that he—Arthur, the real Arthur—will never look at her like this. Not ever. Not even if they make it out of here alive.

His brow creases as he watches her. "What's with the look?"

"Nothing, I was just thinking about some stuff."

"Not us, I hope," he says, and ducks his head to kiss her nose.

"It was just stuff."

From the corner of her eye, she can see Whelan rise from his seat with a huff and move through the crowd in the direction of the casino's main bar.

They've got ten minutes.

"Hey," the surfer boy's voice drops low, and the way his eyes slide back to hers tells her he's seen it, too. "Maybe we could go somewhere a little more private."

One or two of the closest projections glance in their direction, but it's not suspicion in their eyes so much as cynical judgment of the naïve young couple.

It is a good cover, Ariadne admits to herself—or she would, probably, if her brain wasn't already indisposed of—no one ever suspects the two lovers with PDA issues. She kisses the corner of his lips before tightening her laced-finger grip on his hand. She guides the way through the maze of projections and games to the hall that leads to the restrooms.

There's a third door in the hallway; an unmarked panel with a lock in the handle just like the broom closets Ariadne seems to keep finding herself in. This one also has a secondary lock—one that can't be seen from this side of the door—that only opens in response to the electronic key fobs each member of the team has tucked away in a pocket or on a chain.

Ariadne throws a glance back down the hall to make sure there's no one around to see before activating the lock. They step through the door into an impossibly wide, sage-walled room with rich carpet and a ring of sofas surrounding a table topped with a PASIV device.

They're barely through the door before the surfer boy jerks his hand out of Ariadne's. He brushes past her, and she can see Arthur in the rhythm of his footsteps and the sharp lines of his shoulders. He hunches over the PASIV, and his form flickers for a moment before snapping solid again, transformed into the dark gray tailoring of a suit and the dark brown of his slicked-back hair.

She's watching him again, but it's different this time because his fingers are making quick work of getting set up for the transition to the next dream level, and his eyes don't ever rise to meet hers. She could be a ghost in the room for the deliberate way he keeps his gaze from wandering quite high enough to catch her own.

The door behind her clicks open and she jumps at the noise. She turns as one of Whelan's associates from the poker table—tall, gray-haired, with expensive taste in clothes and shoes- slides through the door.

He smirks at her, and the static in her nerves smooths itself out.

"Where are we?" Arthur asks without glancing up.

"Whelan's still sipping his drink, Yusuf should be here any minute, and you two make the most charming little American couple," Eames's forgery says, winking at Ariadne.

Arthur doesn't rise to the bait. "How is Whelan acting?"

"Like a man who's happily prepared to waste as much money as humanly possible before his surgery."

"Perfect," says Arthur.

The door opens again and a willowy man in a bar staff uniform joins their company. "This is the sort of dream I like," he tells them, accent shifting from American to Kenyan. "Easy and quiet."

"We're not done yet," Arthur warns.

"Ah, but I get to relax here and watch the rest of you sleep. You're the ones who have to have to worry."

"Aren't you the lucky one," Eames' forgery says. The tone is light, but Ariadne can hear a hint of something—Jealousy? Irritation?—beneath the surface.

She arches a brow at him, but he knots his together in confusion before he jumps over the back of one of the sofas and drops into his place in the circle.

Yusuf follows suit, and Ariadne is about to join them when the door is shoved open. It bounces off the wall with a bang and a young Chinese man in a tuxedo glares them as he half-carries, half-drags the limp body of Alexander Whelan into the room.

Ariadne darts forward, closing the door behind them before grabbing Whelan's free arm and wrapping it around her shoulders to help carry the weight.

"How'd it go?" Arthur asks.

"Just like we'd planned," Cobb's voice says through the tuxedoed man's lips.

"Good."

Cobb nods as he and Ariadne drop Whelan's body onto one of the vacant sofas before finding their own seats. It's Yusuf's turn to pass out the IVs and count down the seconds. He wishes them all good luck before pressing the plunger.

* * *

It's over.

It's over the instant her eyes blink open in the first-floor lobby of her second dreamscape and she looks from the confused faces of the rest of the team to the black barreled guns of the two dozen sub-security projections surrounding them.

She raises her hands as Whelan's voice breaks through the confusion. "It was a nice try," he says, amusement blatant in his tone. "But you were just a bit too slow."

Eames is standing beside the man, his expression blank and unreadable, and Ariadne tries to understand how he got there and why he's not reaching for Whelan's gun.

And then the pieces snap into place. She's already heard Eames' angry late night phone calls, and he's already told her that Arthur took him away from a previous engagement, and she already knows that he's very good at weighing the odds to make sure he comes out intact.

He catches her eye, and his jaw clenches just a bit.

All she wants is to curl her fingers around his neck and squeeze until he stops thrashing.


	15. Chapter 15

_I'm glad so many of you enjoyed the twist of the last chapter; I was a terrified that it wouldn't be well received. Hope this update doesn't disappoint!_

_~M._

"You weren't expecting this one, were you?" Whelan taunts. His expression is smooth, but he rolls his weight forward onto the balls of his feet like an eager child. "You conmen, you contract dreamers like to believe that the rules of civilized conduct don't apply to you because you're clever and can keep on your toes most of the time. You forget that your employers are clever, too, and that we don't much like being taken for fools. I'd like to remind you, Arthur"—he turns to the point man, and the gun in his hand twists as he gestures with it—"of our previous conversation. Your options, as I originally gave them, were these: teach me to work my own inception, or forfeit the lives of everyone on your team. But now that you've tried to cheat me for the second time, I've come up with a new offer: you and your team will show me the mechanics of an inception, and yours will be the only life I take as retribution for this whole scenario"—the gun swings wide as he motions to the room around them—"And before you get too attached to the idea of slipping your way out of this one, know that while we are down here dreaming there are men in the hospital snapping handcuffs on your wrists and waiting for us to wake. You are, with all absolution, at my mercy."

By the end, Ariadne can barely hear Whelan's words over the pounding of blood in her ears. Her skin is too tight and her muscles shiver violently beneath it. Her eyes keep trying to roll toward Arthur, but she knows better than to let them. She is not that strong. One look at him will crush her.

It's Cobb who breaks the silence, and she can't fathom how he manages to keep his voice so smooth. "This is not the way to negotiate with us," he says. "I understand your anger, but you can't expect us to willingly help you knowing that when we're done you're going to kill one of us."

Whelan cocks his gun and levels it at Cobb's head. "I'm sorry; it's possible I was somewhat unclear on the terms. You lot agree play by my rules, and I'll consider not sending you to limbo while we wait for your chemist to trigger the kick."

"Leave it alone, Dom," Arthur murmurs before turning to Whelan, his voice shifting into the clean, commanding tone that defines him as a point man. "We'll need information on the mark, a workspace, several weeks at minimum to come up with a workable plan, and before I do the actual inception you will need to get in contact with Saito at Proclus Global and release the rest of my team to his protection so that I know you won't change your end of the agreement when the job's done."

Whelan chuckles at the words. "I appreciate your lack of trust in my ability to keep my word, but we both know it takes a team to work an inception."

Arthur shakes his head. "Ariadne's an architect, they're only useful in the planning stages, Yusuf can teach me what chemical compounds I'll need to create in the field, and Dom was nothing but dead weight on the last job; I can only assume Eames dragged him into this one on your command. The only person I'll need in the job itself is a forger, and you've already procured the best."

The skin around Eames' eyes crackles almost imperceptibly into a wince as a smile breaks out across Whelan's face. "And when I release them, what incentive will there be for you to finish the work?"

"You'll still have Eames."

"The man who betrayed you? No, I'm fairly certain any threats I make toward him would only encourage you to deviate from our agreement."

"Exactly," Arthur says, tone cold. "I'll play your little game just the way you want me to, and at the end of it you let me kill Eames before you kill me."

The air in the room feels almost solid. Ariadne's knuckles are burning, and she has to glance down to realize that somewhere in the fray her hand reached for her totem. It sits much too lightly in her palm and not even the distraction of the pain is enough to give her comfort now.

Whelan turns to Eames. "You weren't going to get out of this one alive, anyway."

"No," Eames agrees hoarsely. "And it doesn't matter to me how I go."

"I believe we have a deal, then." Whelan's grin is so wide Ariadne half expects it to rip through his cheeks up to his ears. "I'd shake your hand, but it wouldn't mean much in a dream."

"No it wouldn't," Arthur says.

"How much time until your chemist wakes us?"

"Twenty-three minutes."

"Well then, you are all welcome to relax and enjoy yourselves until our time is up. Don't try to be clever, though; my projections are excellent shots."

As if on cue, the ring of sub-security begins to dissipate, scattering through the lobby with their weapons still drawn and their expressions still severe.

Whelan gives a slight, smirking bow to the team before heading toward the elevator. Ariadne watches him, frozen, until the metallic doors slide closed behind his back.

A burst of movement explodes in the corner of her eye, and she turns in time to watch Cobb land a punch on Eames' jaw. He grabs the front of the forger's jacket before he can fall and drags him forward until he's screaming in Eames' face. "What the fuck did you do!"

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," Eames grits out.

"You sold us out; what the fuck was it supposed to be like?"

"Dom," Arthur's voice is low, a warning, and although Ariadne still won't let herself look at him, she can see the angles of his body in the corner of her eye, and she follows their gesture across the room to where Cobb's outburst is causing several of the projections to start back in their direction, guns raised.

Dom either doesn't hear him or doesn't care. He tightens his grip on Eames' jacket and shakes the man until Ariadne can hear the chatter of his teeth. "Answer me!"

Eames doesn't say anything, and Arthur crowds the two men, attempting to peel Cobb's hands from Eames' coat as the beat of boots against tile fills the lobby and the circle of sub-security begins to reform around them.

"Stop it," Arthur growls. "Now is not the time for this."

"When, then?" Cobb demands. He turns toward Arthur, hands still fisted in Eames' clothes. "When this is all over? When you're dead?"

His body is all tense muscle and sharp, angry creases, but Ariadne can see the wide panic in his eyes. She can see in him the hollow man who has already been robbed of the most important person in his universe, and is now about to lose his closest friend.

Arthur meets his gaze for a moment, and Cobb freezes. Stiffly, he allows the point man to pry his fingers off Eames.

Eames fixes his jacket, takes a step back, and then pauses. "I'm sorry," he says, eyes flickering from Cobb to Arthur to Ariadne and back again. "About Arthur, I mean. It wasn't...It wasn't supposed to go this bloody far." His hands fidget with his coat again, before he makes a retreat for the far side of the room.

The circle of projections parts for him and then begins to disperse.

The team watches until Eames throws himself into a chair at the other end of the lobby and drops his head into his upturned palms. They watch several minutes beyond that, waiting for the silence to feel just a bit less like suffocation.

It's Cobb, once again, who speaks first. "We'll find a way around it," he says, eyes still on Eames. "We have resources; people we can call on. We've been in tight spots before; we always manage to make it out intact."

"It will be fine," Arthur lies easily, before turning to Ariadne.

She knows better than to look at him, better than to meet his eyes and watch the way he hides fear beneath a dozen layers of experience, professionalism, and control. She knows better, but her muscles are not her own. Without hesitation, her gaze moves up to meet his.

"I'm sorry for dragging you into this," Arthur says, and his expression shudders when some wild emotion breaks through his mask for an instant before he shoves it back down. "I'll hold Whelan to his word. I'll get you out of this safely, I promise."

She means to get angry with him, make some jibe that begins with, "of all the idiotic things to be thinking about right now," and keep her faltering defenses as firmly in place as possible.

But there's something heartbreaking to the set of his jaw, and her head keeps pounding out _no time, no time, no time_, and her body isn't listening to wisdom much anyway.

His mouth tastes like cinnamon. It's still beneath hers for a moment before he reacts, body pressing into hers, arms wrapping tight around her as his lips move in a desperate dance with her own. The feel of him consumes her mind, blocking out the lobby and the projections and Cobb who could be watching them, mouth agape for all she knows or cares.

She can feel moisture on her cheeks, but she's too close to tell whether they're her tears or Arthur's.

The kick comes all too soon.


	16. Chapter 16

_This story passed the two hundred review mark and I about had a heart attack because of it. I never expected so many of you to enjoy my writing, and I'm so grateful for your comments and critiques.  
_

_Leopard16 asked how many chapters I'm aiming for and I have to say that I really don't know. I would guess that this story is tentatively two-thirds of the way done, but I don't write from an outline and I rarely have any idea of what's going to happen next, so it's hard to say. I will try to give you some kind of warning before the last chapter or two, though, so the ending doesn't come too abruptly._

_~M._

Yusuf times the kick well; Ariadne barely opens her eyes in the room with the sofas before it's consumed by crisp white walls and men in dark suits. She's jerked to her feet and shoved toward the door so quickly that she almost misses the sight of Whelan stretched out on the white hospital bed in his paper gown, still asleep from the anesthetic.

"What the bloody hell?" Yusuf's voice erupts somewhere behind her.

"Eames played us," Arthur says off to her right, at the same moment that one of the suited men cocks his gun and orders them to stop talking.

Whelan's people herd them from his recovery room through the employees-only sections of the hospital, where people in scrubs and white coats make a point to keep their heads down and keep walking. Ariadne wonders, briefly, how much money it takes to work something like this.

The team is led out of the hospital doors and into a waiting ambulance manned by more men in more dark suits. The ride is short, shorter than Ariadne expects it to be, and she barely has time to run her bound hands over the outline of the bishop in her pocket before the vehicle comes to a stop and the team is shoved past tall brick walls growing up out of dark alleyway pavement, through a new set of doors, and into what looks like an old warehouse.

The entire main floor is a single room with high cement walls and an echo that turns footsteps into gun shots. There are still lines and arrows painted along the floor to show where things should be stored, but the whole room has been gutted and refilled with whiteboards and workstations that look almost comically small and out of place in the huge room.

In the middle of it all stands an oily-haired man in wrinkled khakis and a faded dress shirt.

Ariadne's muscles lock up at the sight of him, and the hitch of her breath resonates throughout the room as the man turns and fixes his sunken eyes on his new company.

Fingers brush along Ariadne's shoulder. She jerks at the touch and twists around just as Eames steps past her toward the center of the room. She shivers and wants to tell him to keep his damn hands to himself, but he looks at her—one of those quick little glances that fits into the time between one heartbeat and the next—and his expression isn't bitter or desperate or cocky, it's the wide-eyed calm of a man waiting for the next move on the chessboard. It's so foreign on his face that Ariadne forgets her jibe and stares at him as he leads the way to the middle of the room.

"It looks like everything went smoothly for you," Nash says, hands fiddling with a whiteboard marker, capping and uncapping it with a sequence of irritating clicks.

"I told you I could do it," Eames responds dismissively. He arches his neck to glance at the ceiling over their heads as though he has the ability to see through the inches of cement before his eyes finish their revolution and land back on the team. "Take the cuffs off them," he says to the half dozen black-suited men still shadowing their steps. "It'll be no good trying to show them around if their hands are bound."

There's the jingling of keys and the grabbing of their arms and the little metallic clangs of metal popping loose. Ariadne rubs her wrists and pulls her totem from her pocket. She tightens her hand around it until her knuckles ache and tries to force herself to believe that it's _her_ hand and _her_ totem and _her_ reality, that the events playing out all around her are real and do mean something and that if she looks at the others, at Dom and Yusuf and Arthur—something she hasn't let herself do since they came out of the dream world—she'll see the gravity of the situation carved into their features.

But it's not real yet. It won't be real until she can find a moment alone to tip her totem and convince herself that she has not somehow fallen between the cracks of the dream world.

She's scared that even then she won't quite be able to believe. That she won't ever be able to come to terms with this world where their job is a disaster and Eames is a traitor and Arthur is...Arthur is...

"Whelan had his people grab our stuff from the hotel already," Eames says over the tumult inside her mind. "All of your work things should be on your desks down here, and luggage and whatnot is all upstairs."

"Who's the mark?" Arthur's voice asks from just behind Ariadne. It takes all her will not to turn.

"Don't know," Eames says. "Whelan wouldn't tell us anything; didn't want us getting started without him."

"Does he expect us to work with Nash?" Cobb asks darkly.

The hollow-eyed architect barks a laugh. "No, I'm just an extra pair of eyes and ears."

"In case it wasn't already obvious, Whelan doesn't exactly trust you," Eames explains to the team. "We've got the men in black on this side of the dream world, and Whelan's requiring that you have either him or Nash or me with you any time you go under to make sure nothing happens that he's not aware of."

"So what are you getting out of all of this?" Ariadne doesn't realize she's said the words aloud until the others turn to look at her and she has to focus very hard on keeping her eyes on Eames. "What is so fucking important to you that you would sell us all out? Because it sure as hell doesn't sound like you're getting much out of this whole thing."

Eames smiles at her with one of those indulgent, pitying smiles that makes her want to punch him in the face. "Sorry, love; we've just come to the end of the question and answer portion of the evening. If you would all like to follow me upstairs, I can show you where you'll be staying."

* * *

The warehouse's second story was all offices once upon a time, but somewhere in the past couple decades someone realized that there's always a bigger need for housing than office space and converted the floor into apartments.

It reminds Ariadne, more than she would like it to, of her flat back in Paris, built above a pub so that all the rooms are an odd shape and everything she does between 8pm and 2am has a faint soundtrack of whatever local band has been booked for the evening. She doesn't think she'll be able to go back to it after this.

There are three multi-bedroom apartments in the warehouse, and the team's luggage has already been placed so that the suitemates are Eames and Yusuf, Nash and Cobb, and Ariadne and Arthur. When Arthur heard the arrangement he'd almost begged in that precise, controlled tone of his to switch with someone or claim a couch in one of the living rooms and leave Ariadne with the apartment to herself.

Eames had laughed it off before explaining that the rooms had been set up specifically to keep any ulterior planning to a minimum, and Ariadne had focused very hard on the rip in the hallway wallpaper five centimeters down from where the south wall met the ceiling and tried not to think about the way her pulse pounded in her ears and her throat felt like it was on fire. She wasn't the one facing death. Whatever the hell Arthur wanted to do with the coming days was his choice and she would have to be an absolute selfish moron to be hurt by that.

They'd retreated to their flats soon after, leaving Whelan's men to guard the hallway. Ariadne had wondered, briefly, where his people be staying, before realizing that they were probably all on shifts like any other normal security. It was a strange dichotomy that the world was turning itself upside down for her and the team, but it kept spinning on for everyone else clinging to its shell.

* * *

She's already tipped her bishop, lost her lunch, and paced the creaking wood of her new bedroom floor, and the clock's only reading 2:16am. It'll be another four hours at least, she's guessing, before heading downstairs to get a better look at her workspace will appear anything less than suspicious to Whelan's men, and she doesn't even have a book to help pass the time. She's already gave up on sleep. She's tried lying down a dozen times but every time her eyes close she can see Whelan and she jolts back to her feet and continues her pacing.

She swore to herself that she'd stay locked in her room as much as possible to keep from exacerbating whatever it is that made Arthur vie for a different roommate, but it's the middle of the night and it's been at least an hour since she heard anything from the hallway outside her door.

The kitchen's stocked. She managed to note that in the thirty seconds it had taken her to walk from their front door to her room, and while she's still too nauseated to stomach actual food, she could really use a cup of tea.

She lifts her hand to the doorknob four times before she can convince herself to open it.

Arthur's door on the other side of the hallway is closed and there's no light trickling through around the edges.

She hopes, as she slips down the hall on the balls of her feet, that he's deeply, dreamlessly asleep and making up for all of the late nights, early mornings, and jetlag of the past days.

Her hopes die in the living room.

Arthur is sitting in the dark, curled up in an armchair that's been dragged over to face the window. He's illuminated in the soft light of the streetlamps, and Ariadne can't stop herself from staring at him. He's dressed in the rumpled black t-shirt and gray plaid pajama bottoms that she last saw on her visit to his Venezuelan hotel room, and he's gathering shadows in the hollows of his cheeks and the pits of his eye sockets until his face looks nearly skeletal; the shell of a man whose life has been chipped away by a constant battery of clients, jobs, and expectations until all that remains is a puppet and some strings.

She shifts her weight just a bit, trying to get a better view of him, and the floor beneath her foot creaks.

His gaze snaps toward her and his eyes are tight and his lips pursed, and she feels very much like a cornered animal.

"Sorry," she says. "I couldn't sleep and I thought tea might help. I didn't realize you were still up. I'll just—I'll head back to my room now."

He rises from his chair and she has to force herself not to take the step back that her fight-or-flight instinct is demanding. She wonders, vaguely, how she can be so insatiably drawn to this man and still not trust him. She wonders if she will ever know him at all.

"Stay if you'd like," he says. "There's hot water on the stove and tea in the cupboard above the fridge. I'll see you in the morning."

He slides past her and there's a very small, very selfish part of her that wants to ask him why it is that he can hold her and kiss her in the dream world, but being in the same room is now too close for real life.

She bites the inside of her cheek and says nothing.


	17. Chapter 17

_Thanks so much for the brilliant reviews, and also for the questions that some of you have begun asking. My answers are much longer than I had originally intended, but I love the opportunity to interact with you a bit._

_Efcia asked if, when I picked the title for this story, I chose it because it translates to "us" in French or if I was using the English translation, which refers to the intellectual mind or how one perceives oneself in the context of the universe. The answer is I'm a huge nerd when I comes to words, and I actually picked 'Nous' because I love the contrast between the 'us' of the French translation and the sense of mind or self in the English translation. The dichotomy between the two seemed to work really well both for Inception as a whole (dreaming being an individualistic thing in contrast with the idea of shared dreaming) and Arthur and Ariadne's not-quite-relationship, where they're both very independent people, but they also sort of have this thing for each other._

_Ali Bear__101 asked if I'm doing NaNoWriMo this year, and I am in theory (I'm writing a SciFi set a bit in the future where we have the technology, more or less, to bring recently dead people back to life), but I'm also working on this story and doing some major revisions for my agent on a novel that I finished at the start of summer, so I'm not sure how far I'll actually get. (This is also why I may be a slow updating this story this month, sorry for that!)_

_~M._

Ariadne forces herself to wait until she's finished off her fourth cup of tea and the clock above the oven reads 5:02 before she starts the coffee maker, stops by her room for some clean clothes, and heads for the shower. She keeps the water as cold as she can stand and tries to focus on things like the color of the tiles and the smell of the shampoo; anything to keep herself anchored in the present and away from the despair that is slowly carving up her mind.

Her fingers are numb by the time she turns the water off, and she fumbles a bit with the hook on her bra and the button on her jeans. Arthur's door is still closed when she slips out of the bathroom and into her room to grab her bag, but she's still half-surprised to find the rest of the apartment void of his presence.

She makes herself a few slices of toast, pours some coffee into an oversized mug, and opens the front door before she can lose her nerve.

Five of Whelan's men line the hall, and each one turns to look at her as she struggles to balance her plate and mug in one hand while closing the door with the other. They don't shout or raise their guns, though, and she takes that as a good sign as she starts toward the stairs. They say nothing, but Ariadne can hear the loud beat of a second pair of footsteps falling into line behind her own.

She tries not to think about how, even in the dream world, she's never been shot in the back.

The lights are already on in the warehouse, and she wonders if Arthur snuck out of their flat while she was in the shower.

She wonders until the sixth step, when her gaze clears the bottom of the second story and she can see down across the warehouse floor to where Eames is tipped back in a chair with his feet on his desk and a laptop balanced on his legs.

He glances up at her and grins. "'Morning, love. Having trouble sleeping?"

She stares through him and tries not to notice the miniature tidal waves brewing in her mug as she looks for the sketch pads and stacks of corrugated cardboard that will mark her desk.

Eames waves toward the workstation beside his, where her things are gathered in several disorderly stacks. "Sorry, you're sort of stuck with me."

She drops her bag on the desk and begins sorting through the piles of her things. In the corner of her vision, her escort moves to stand against the closest wall.

"You know," Eames says, breaking the silence yet again. "I didn't get the chance to tell you, but your performance with Arthur in the first level of Whelan's dream was bloody brilliant. If you ever find architecture boring you could always take up forgery."

Ariadne lines up her pens and x-acto knives in perfect rows and tries not to think about the way Eames' nose would crack beneath her fist. She can't remember why she was so desperate to come downstairs in the first place.

"Whelan's going to be stuck in recovery for a few days yet, if you're interested you and I could do a bit more target practice in the meantime and I could teach you a few extra forgery tricks."

A laugh claws its way up her throat and explodes bitter and gasping on her lips. "What the hell do you think I'm going to say now? 'Sure, let's just forget about the part where you sold us out to Whelan and go back to being friends!'?"

"Not friends, of course not, but business partners, maybe, or coworkers. All I'm saying is time's sort, and I still have things I could teach you if you were able to work around the discovery that I'm a miserable, traitorous sod."

She had thought, naively, that nothing could be worse than the moment in the second dream when she realized why Eames was standing at Whelan's side, but the betrayal had nothing on this Eames who continues on with his grins and his wit and his clever persuasion that made her trust him in the first place. The black and white of hating him was so clear in the dream, in the ambulance, in the silence of her flat, but has begun to smudge and run in the wake of his pleading gaze.

"You're the reason Whelan knew what we were doing," she murmurs.

"Yes," he says with a nod.

"You're the reason we're going to pry open someone else's mind."

"Yes."

"And you're the reason Arthur will die at the end of it."

He runs a hand over his face before saying, "Yes, love, it's all true."

"So why should I do anything that would force me to spend more time with the coward who orchestrated all of that?"

"Because we were friends, Ariadne, and you'll still miss me when I'm gone."

She reaches for her coffee cup so she doesn't have to meet his gaze and wishes he was wrong.

* * *

"What about Yusuf?"

"I don't know Yusuf well enough."

"Cobb, then."

"No. No one on the team, it's too awkward."

"Honestly, love, it's only awkward if you let it be. Look," Eames says, and Ariadne watches as his image in the ballet studio mirror warps and becomes an exact copy of her own.

She turns to look at him just as he completes the transformation.

"It shouldn't be any stranger than copying your aunt," Eames says with her lips and her voice and her accent.

"Except that both my aunt and I are female."

"Don't be so squeamish. Here, try doing me."

She grits her teeth and focuses on her reflection in the glass. He's taller than she is, with broad shoulders and parted hair and a chaotic blend of casual and business wear. His jaw is perpetually covered with stubble, and he has the most aggravating little smirk and his eyes are pale blue with the softest hint of creases at the corners.

"Good," her doppelganger breathes at the sight of him in the mirror. "You're half way there."

It's a strange sensation to grow into another body; stretching molecules until her form fits the frame in the mirror. She glances down before running a hand over the five o'clock shadow on her jaw like she's watched him do a thousand times before.

"Not bad, although I'd like to think I'm a bit more built than that," he tells her, standing on his toes so they're closer to the same height.

"It's my first time, love, I think I deserve a bit of leeway," she says, trying to copy the lilt of his voice.

He laughs at her. "Clearly we need to spend some time doing dialectal coaching; you're a shame to Mother England."

She laughs with him, and it feels safe and familiar and easy. The amusement dies on her lips, and when she looks back at the mirror she realizes that she's lost her forgery.

"This is part of the plan, isn't it?" She asks. "You're supposed to win back our trust so Whelan can use it to manipulate us again. And I'm already falling for it."

Eames' reverts back to his real body, and the misery in his expression makes her want to punch him.

"I was laying low in a little village in Nepal when I got the phone call," he says softly. "The man on the other end introduced himself as Alexander Whelan, head of Cobol. I told him he had the wrong number and hung up. He called back, said Cobb and Arthur had agreed to work a job for him, one they never followed through on. He said he'd given Arthur the opportunity to make good on his contract and that Arthur had declined, said he'd warned Arthur of the consequences of his decision and that now he was making good on those consequences."

He materializes two arm chairs in the middle of the dance studio and drops into one before continuing. "You know he's got men assigned to Cobb's family? Hell, he had people trailing all of us, and he said...he said all it would take was one order and every single one of us would be butchered, just like that. He said I'd probably be getting a call from Arthur in the next few days, said I was to play informant for everything that went on with the team or we would all be dead men.

"I know it doesn't seem like it," he adds, leaning forward to look Ariadne in the eye as she settles into her seat. "But I'm on your side. I've been on your side all along and I'm trying my bloody hardest to do right by the rest of you, and I am sorry about Arthur; Whelan never told me he had that one up his sleeve, but I'm in too deep to argue with him now."

The temptation of the truth in his words is almost too much for Ariadne to stand. "Why should I believe you?"

"You shouldn't," Eames says quickly. "It would probably be safer for all of us if you don't, but you deserve to know so that later, when this is all over, you'll maybe start to understand why I did what I did."

She tries to wrap her mind around his logic, but something jolts her body and the dream shatters.

* * *

There's screaming in her ears and pain all down her left side. Ariadne opens her eyes to find herself in a heap on the floor. Eames is slowly pulling himself out of his own heap, and as she watches him, she realizes that over his shoulder she can see Arthur struggling madly in the grip of two of Whelan's men.

"You fucking bastard!" The point man screams, and it takes Ariadne a moment to realize he's looking at Eames. "What the hell did you do to her?"

One of the guards slams the butt of his gun into Arthur's stomach, and the point man doubles over.

It takes another moment for Ariadne to realize that the scream in her ears is now her own.


	18. Chapter 18

_I owe you all a huge apology for the two week delay; November's proving to be quite the month for me and I really appreciate all of your patience and encouragement. I've had quite a bit of trouble with this chapte, and I'm still not completely pleased with it, but I wanted to get something out to you before next week.  
_

_Ali Bear101 asked about seeing my writing in bookstores, and it's going to be a few years (if ever) before I make it to that stage._

_Moony's Number 1 asked about reading my NaNoWriMo stuff after I'm done with it, and it's actually something I'm hoping to revise and publish at some point, so it won't be up for reading after the month is over. Sorry about that!  
_

_~M._

"Stop. Please, please stop," Ariadne begs in between the second crack of the gun butt against Arthur's abdomen and the first against his cheek.

Two more of Whelan's men have stepped forward to restrain Arthur's arms. The blows don't even slow.

"I'd be careful with him if I were you, boys," Eames says, slipping the IV needle out from under his skin. "Whelan will have you shot if you knock something loose in our point man's head."

The man with the gun pauses. He turns to look at Eames, and the forger grins at him.

"He was just giving us a kick," Eames explains. "No harm done, and I'm sure Arthur's learned his lesson by now."

The gunman gives a slow nod before snapping his gaze back to his companions. He gives a second nod, and the men release their grasp on Arthur and take a few steps back. Their hands hover conspicuously over their holsters.

They draw them in the next instant, as Arthur staggers forward and grabs Ariadne's upper arms.

His eyes are narrowed into sharp, dangerous slits and his fingers are tight enough to bruise. "Are you alright?" he asks, and the words slur in the sea of red flooding his mouth.

She can smell the metallic twang of blood on his breath.

"I'm fine," she says over Eames' demands that their guards put their guns away.

Arthur swallows once, and when he parts his lips to speak again Ariadne can see that the red has coated his teeth. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, really; Eames was just teaching me more about forgery."

"Ah." He looks from her to Eames and back again, his form straightening. "I came down and you were both under and I assumed..."

"Nash," she whispers, memories of the night in the library battering against her.

"Nash," he repeats with a nod. "I guess I was wrong."

His gaze slides away from her and he retreats across the room with stiff steps. She forms his name on her lips once, takes five steps to follow him before reminding herself again that he's a dead man walking and if he doesn't want to talk to her then he doesn't have to.

She makes the mistake of glancing at Eames. He's got that all too familiar look of sickening pity in his eyes.

She spends the morning sketching physically impossible structures and trying not to think. The rest of the team filters in with quiet greetings and cold expressions. They have time, downtime; time to relax and regroup for the coming job. Instead, Cobb flips through files he's looked at a hundred times before, Yusuf fiddles with his chemicals, and Eames shuffles papers around on his desk and clicks his pen until Cobb tells him to shut the hell up.

Arthur doesn't reappear.

* * *

The minutes drag until 12:49p.m. when Ariadne gives in to the excuse of lunch. She promises herself she'll be careful around Arthur, keep her words to a minimum and eat in her room if necessary.

He's on the couch when she enters, one hand holding a book and the other pressing a bag of frozen stir fry vegetables to his cheek. He glances up at her. The makeshift ice pack doesn't quite conceal the way his cheek has begun to swell.

"I'm sorry," they both say at the same time.

She drops her bag on the kitchen counter. "I was the reason you got hit; what are you apologizing for?"

"I was wrong," he says, voice smooth. "I saw you both under and I thought...I shouldn't have assumed that your friendship with him would have changed just because of what happened in Whelan's dream."

She can feel the distance between them stretched out into miles of cliffs and canyons and cement bunkers until it's a wonder she can hear him at all. She is not weak or emotional or one of those girls who can cry at the drop of a hat. She loves architecture because it's the poetry of beauty brought into submission to the logic of reality, and even in the dream world there are rules that can be bent but never quite broken. She's always considered herself like that; heart in submission to the logic of her head, even if there is, occasionally, a war between the two.

She knows it's not his tone—because she can play a frigid bitch better than any man—and she's pretty sure it's not the sight of the rust-red stains on his shirtfront or the sick rainbow of colors on his cheek—because they should make her sympathetic, if anything—but there's a roar forming in the back of her brain, and she has to shout just to hear herself.

"How can you think—after everything, after the kiss in your hotel room, in the car, in the dream—how the _hell_ can you think that I don't care about all of this?"

He's on his feet, rounding the couch, ready to respond, but she's pent up too many thoughts to stop now.

"What am I to you, really? You said I was your obsession, but it's like you can't decide whether you want to suck my lips off or pretend I don't exist. It's your choice, you know—you're the one with the deadline—but I'm so sick of us never talking about anything that matters and I'm done with trying to guess which side of you I'm going to see next. If I have to pretend I don't care about you at all for the next couple of weeks because anything beyond that makes you feel like you don't have total control of the situation then I'll suck it up and play the part, but I'm done with this love/hate thing; we don't have enough time left for it, and I'm not going to end up like Cobb dreaming of the memories I wish I could change."

She reaches the end of herself and waits for him to react with his own emotions.

The calm mask of his features makes her wonder if he heard her at all.

"I'm sorry that I've upset you," he says finally as he walks past her to the freezer and returns his makeshift ice pack to its shelf. "But I don't think now is the time to talk about this."

She rolls her hands into fists and crosses her arms over her chest. "You're incredible, you know. I've never met anyone else who can turn their emotions on and off the way you can; pack the segments of your life that you don't want to deal with away in boxes in the back of your brain and only take them out when it's covenant. I don't know why I'm still surprised by it, but I am."

"Sorry," he repeats as he doubles back and grabs his book from the couch. She reads the words 'Fight Club' on its cover, and realizes, as she watches his shoulders shift beneath the fabric of his suit jacket as he heads for the hallway to their bedrooms, that this is yet another piece of him that she doesn't know and might never get the chance to understand.

"I talked with Eames this morning, in the dream before you woke us up," she tells him. It's the first thing she can think of to keep him from walking away. "He said he's sorry and that Whelan threatened to murder all of us unless he became a mole. He wanted me to know that he's still on our side."

The line of Arthur's shoulders tenses, and he pauses without turning. "Do you believe him?"

"Not yet."

"Be careful; he knows how to play all of us."

"I know, but at least he's willing to talk to me."

Arthur disappears with the slam of a door.

Ariadne squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, before crossing the floor to stand outside his room. "You were the one who stalked me to Paris, remember? You started this whole thing with that stupid kiss in the hotel in Yusuf's dream and you can choose not to talk about any of it, but I deserve to at least know why you won't."

She can hear his sigh reverberate through the door, and a moment later it opens.

"Do you remember the beginning of the end for Mal?" he asks, the side of his head resting against the door frame.

"Cobb found her totem inside their dream; he made her question reality."

"No," Arthur says. "That was just an earlier stage of the effect, I'm talking about the actual cause." He runs a hand over his hair before continuing. "Cobb always says that the most dangerous thing you can do is let memories and dreams mix, but there were nights—back before everything went to hell—that he and I would be pouring over files in the middle of the night for some job or other and he would tell me that the single greatest thing that shared dreaming had given him was extra time with Mal. They'd known each other six months the first time he said it, and they'd already spent years together in the dreamworld between our jobs and their chemical research. That was how it all started; they loved each other, but half their love was based on memories of things that never actually happened. You can't spend fictional days and weeks and months together and not have it begin to tear apart your understanding of reality."

"I don't understand what that has to do with us," she tells him.

"Love killed Mal. Not directly, but that's what started her down that path, and it devastated Cobb and nearly cost us the Fischer job. I'm sorry, but I can't risk that."

"You and I aren't Cobb and Mal."

"No," he agrees, raising a hand to brush away the tears she's been trying not to spill. "We know better than to make their mistakes."

"Fucking hell, Arthur, you make it sound like we're a couple of science experiments. We aren't them. We aren't anything like them. We deserve to have a shot at whatever the hell happiness looks like when we're trapped in a warehouse doing the bidding of an evil CEO."

His eyes crinkle at the corners and she wants so, so badly to wrap her fingers in his hair, drag his face down to her level, and kiss him until they're both gasping for breath.

She focuses on the yellow-green bruise on his left cheek and keeps her arms crossed.

"Maybe you're right," he says, and the amenable tone of his words makes her wonder if she missed something.

He raises his hand again, this time to cup her cheek, and his head tilts in the instant before lips meet lips.

She steps back before they touch. "I'm done playing this game with you," she warns him. "Don't kiss me unless you're ready to stop pretending."

He laughs, and she can smell the spearmint of his toothpaste. He tilts his head again and she can taste it.


	19. Chapter 19

_Once again I apologize for how long it's taken me to update; life is a bit crazy so it's going to be slow, but I'm still enjoying this story and I have every intention of finishing it. Thanks to those of you have stuck with me since the beginning, and to those of you who keep reviewing to say you read this story in one sitting, in spite of other responsibilities. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your kind words; your enthusiasm is a huge part of what makes this story so much fun to write._

_~M._

Ariadne presses her body into the contours of his, snaking her arms around him as though, maybe, if she could just hold tight enough, she could keep him from blocking her out again.

Arthur gasps against her mouth and she drops her arms and pulls back from him. "What's wrong?"

"Whelan's man knew what he was doing; he cracked a few ribs."

"You should be in the hospital."

He shakes his head and runs his fingers over her hair. "Doctors can't do much for broken ribs unless they're in danger of puncturing organs, and mine aren't."

"You seem to know a lot about this sort of thing."

"This isn't the first time I've been injured on the job."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

She rests a hand on his chest. "Will you show me?"

His eyebrows drop and she begins to pull her hand away before he raises his fingers and begins undoing the buttons of his dress shirt.

The material slides back and Ariadne runs her eyes over the purple and black spreading over his chest like spilled ink. She doesn't know much about injuries—her only experience has been with the bruised knees and broken limbs of an average childhood—and as her gaze shifts from the bruise on his chest to the shimmery white shadows of knife wounds and bullet holes spread out into a roadmap of Arthur's past, she can't suppress the feeling that she is once again a stranger looking in on a world that she will never understand.

She can feel his eyes on her and looks up to find his expression more guarded than she has ever seen it. She realizes, as she watches him watching her until his gaze becomes too much and she has to look away, that he is a man in hiding, protected by barriers of calculation and precision until even his suits wear like armor against the volley of prying eyes. She realizes, as she raises her hand again to brush fingers over bare skin and watches his muscles tense and ripple beneath her touch, that this is one of those acts of trust that might not make much sense to her, but means everything to him.

"Were these," she begins, and clears her throat to fix the way her voice sounds like tumbling gravel. "Were these all from dream work?"

She can feel the weight of the word when he says, "No."

"Will you tell me about them?"

He takes her hand his chest and guides her to the couch. He buttons his shirt before speaking.

"My full name," he begins. "Is Arthur Alexander Pletrev. My father was Alexander Platrev, which is not a name that means anything unless you're a member of the Russian Mafia."

"You don't sound Russian," Ariadne says, and then feels stupid for it.

"No," Arthur replies with a small smile. "My father was in Chicago orchestrating the theft of several shipments of firearms from a military storage unit when he met and fell in love with the daughter of a business mogul. My father told her who he was and asked for her hand in marriage, and she agreed, provided he cut his ties with the mob. Between his wealth and her inheritance they weren't exactly wanting for money, so he agreed and I grew up in a penthouse overlooking the lake. He buried his past, wouldn't tell me anything about it. All I knew growing up was whispered conversations between my parents in the middle of the night and expensive gifts when I learned to stop asking about what I had heard.

"We were in the middle of a month long vacation to Dubai when it all came crashing down." He pauses and weaves his fingers through hers before continuing. "I was walking back from the pool when a man followed me into the elevator. He waited until the doors closed before asking if my father's name was Pletrev. I said 'yes,' and he pulled out a gun and pressed it to my head. He told me that it was time for my father to pay for his crimes. He made me lead the way to our hotel suite. My father was out golfing, but my mother was there and the man told her the same thing he had told me before he gagged us and duct taped us to chairs. The three of us waited together for my father to get back."

"My mother couldn't stop crying during the two hours it took. When my father came through the door, the man turned his gun on him and tied him to his own chair. The man told him, in Russian, that this was the price for the people my father had killed. Then the man took out a knife and began stabbing my mother. When she finally stopped breathing he turned to me.

"Are you okay?" he pauses to ask when Ariadne slips a hand from his grasp to wipe away some of the tears trailing her cheeks. The act takes concentration, because she can't force her hand to stop shaking. She nods.

He continues.

"I passed out before too long and didn't wake up until the hospital room, where the police told me I had been found in the hotel suite with the bodies of my parents, both of whom had been stabbed to death, and that I was lucky to have survived. The doctors told me I'd already undergone two surgeries, and I would be in the ICU until further notice. The nurses told me that my grandfather was on his way. None of them could tell me what I was supposed to do in the aftermath.

"I was fifteen when they buried my parents, and I couldn't even be there. My grandfather waited until I was out of intensive care and then transferred me to a hospital back in Chicago. I was there for two months.

"The police in Dubai did what they could for our case, and my grandfather hired investigators of his own when that wasn't enough, but my father had done a thorough job hiding his former life. There were no leads to follow.

"I lived with my grandfather for nearly a year after the attack, but I couldn't close my eyes without reliving it. I knew I would have to get answers or go insane from the pain and terror.

"All I had to go on was the knowledge that both my father and our attacker were Russian, so I withdrew $50,000 dollars from my bank account and caught a flight to Moscow. I had no idea how to start my own investigation, so I would go from shop to shop telling people my father's name and asking if they knew who he was. I figured his money had to come from somewhere, so someone had to have heard of him.

"It took three weeks before a man asked me where I had heard the name before, and when I told him it was my father's name he invited me to his flat for dinner.

"I was lucky," he says. "I didn't know it at the time, but my father had enough enemies that I could have just as easily been killed in that man's home, but I wasn't. The man's name was Josef, and he told me about his years working under my father in the Russian mafia, told me about the things my father had done and what had happened to the people who crossed him.

"I didn't know what to think about any of it, but things my father had taught me—hunting, intimidation tactics, how to keep from leaving a paper trail—began to make sense. Josef told me everything he could, and then he began introducing me to other men who had worked with my father."

"At first I was only there for information, because I thought that would be enough to make the nightmares go away. But things escalated; I had a reputation because of my father, and men—men who I'd never even met before—would come up to me and say that they would kill for me, that they would die for me. They were already looking for the man who had murdered my parents, and the more men I met—the more times I told my story and was told the story of my father—the more I became part of a heritage I had never known before.

"They were the ones who taught me about shared dreaming. This was back when the militaries were just catching on to the advantages of combat training that actually allowed your soldiers to slaughter one another and wake up feeling fine. I was always good with tactics, and shared dreaming gave me the time I needed to learn how to work as part of a group, how to steal and fight and kill without remorse. By the time I was seventeen I was leading my own extraction team. We used the technology to blackmail the heads of large corporations into working for the mob.

"I had never intended to work for the mafia, but you know how addicting the dream world is, and there was something irresistible about following in my father's footsteps; like I could somehow make up for his death if only I could become the man that he had been.

"It was somewhere around that time that they found the man who had attacked us. They brought him to me and they gave me a knife and I remember looking at him and seeing my mother's bleeding body and thinking about how unfair it was that he had gotten to live for the past twenty months when my parents hadn't.

"He was the first man I ever killed," Arthur says, licking his lips. "After that all I could dream about was murder. I said my goodbyes, dropped my last name, and got out of Russia. I stopped in France on my way back to the States, and it was there that I heard about a man named Cobb who was looking for someone to work an extraction with him. I lied about my age until he let me show him what I could do. We've been more or less working together ever since."

Ariadne clears her throat and tries to gather her thoughts. "What happened to your grandfather?"

"He did what any good guardian would; searched like mad for me. But I hadn't told him anything about where I was going, and he didn't have much to go on. I've sent him several letters to let him know that I'm alright, but I'm afraid that any contact beyond that might put him in danger. I've been careful to keep a low profile, but I don't know how many people still hold a vendetta against my father, and I don't know what sort of resources they have. It's better for everyone if I stay off the map as much as possible."

The line of Arthur's back arches and he rolls his shoulders. "The bullet holes are from a couple different jobs, but I don't think I have the energy to tell those stories right now."

Ariadne tries to compose the string of words that will tell him how sorry and angry and heartbroken she feels for him, how she wishes there was some way to rip apart the memories of his past and reweave them into a history of gentle days and peaceful nights. The words don't come. Instead she leans forward and lets him taste the salt of her tears still lingering on her lips, before she takes his hand and leads him to her room.


	20. Chapter 20

_I went home for Christmas and made the mistake of setting my laptop down in one of the main rooms of my parents' house. I left the room to grab something, and came back to find that my grandfather had opened my computer and was reading through the rough draft of this chapter. Prior to that moment, I had absolutely no idea how impossible it is to explain to a grandparent how "smut" ended up in a word document on my hard drive, especially when he knows that I do quite a bit of writing. All that to say, happy Christmas to those who celebrate it, hope yours was a bit less awkward than mine. ;) _

_A huge amount of thanks to those of you who reviewed the last chapter, both for your compliments and for your critiques; I love getting mixed feedback because it gives me insight into how you guys view the plot, the characters, and the progression of the story. Thanks also to those who have been going through and leaving reviews of earlier chapters; I'm so glad you've found my story and that you're enjoying it so far._

_~M._

He whispers her name like a prayer in the dark, and her breath is a sea of mangled words and shallow gasps. They move together like heartbeats and ocean waves, and when she whispers 'I love you' into the curve of his collarbone, she's not thinking about implications or ramifications or aftermath, only that the words have been clawing at her throat since his kiss that afternoon, and the ache of not saying them has become unbearable.

He reaches a hand up to cup her face and waits until her eyes are focused on his before he says, "I've loved you since the first time I dreamed with you."

* * *

Ariadne can't sleep after. It's not that it wasn't good—'good,' she thinks, would be the understatement of the century, even with Arthur's cracked ribs—and it's not that she isn't tired, because she's still planning on sleeping for a week straight when this is all over. She just can't stop her mind from replaying Arthur's story over and over and over again, analyzing every sentence and gesture and intonation until she feels like she's dissecting him. The thought makes her sick.

She waits until his breathing settles into the slow rhythm of sleep before gathering her shed clothing and slipping from the room.

She's to the part in the grilled cheese making process where she plates the sandwich and peels it open to add apple slices the way that her mom did when she was small, when the door of her bedroom squeaks open and Arthur joins her in the kitchen.

"Sorry if I woke you up; I was trying to be quiet, but you know how—" Ariadne looks up from her work and catches his expression. "What's wrong?"

He plasters a tight-lipped smile over bloodshot eyes and clenched teeth. "You know Dom can't dream on his own anymore?" he asks, scrubbing his finger over an invisible imperfection on island of counter space between them. "He's lucky."

She puts down her apple slices and steps around the island. Her arms circle his waist and she rests her head on his chest and listens to the way his heart beats a hummingbird wing rhythm from beneath his rib case.

He wraps his arms around her and doesn't speak.

* * *

She doesn't remember transitioning from the kitchen to the couch, and when a knock at the door startles her awake she nearly falls off the narrow cushions. It's Arthur's arms, still tight around her, that keep her from hitting the floor.

"It's Dom," he says, detangling himself from her and the blanket covering them.

"How can you tell?"

"That's his knock."

"Like a secret code or something?"

"No, just one of those habits people get into." Arthur's lips twist into a smirk as he reaches for the doorknob. "He doesn't know he does it."

He pulls the door open, and even from her seat on the couch, Ariadne can read tension in the lines of Cobb's body.

"Whelan got an early discharge," he says. "We're meeting him downstairs in fifteen minutes to go over his vision for the job."

Arthur inclines his head, and Cobb's glances around the room, stopping to nod at Ariadne before his eyes snap back to Arthur.

"Listen," he begins slowly.

"I know." Arthur cuts him off, voice flat.

Cobb nods and his focus slides back to Ariadne. "See you in fifteen."

"See you then," she returns, just before Arthur shuts the door.

"What was Cobb trying to tell you?"

"Nothing."

"Don't try to shut me out again." She warns, pulling herself up to her full height.

"He's just concerned about things. I'll talk to him later."

She raises an eyebrow.

He steps back to the couch.

"You need to be able to trust me if we're going to make this work," he says, planting a kiss in her hair.

"I do trust you, I just know better than to believe everything you say."

"Fair enough."

His smile is so wide that she can see the dimples in his cheeks, but the amusement doesn't quite spread to his eyes.

* * *

"It's so nice to see you all in the flesh; I trust your stay has been pleasant so far." Whelan's grin is all teeth as he glances around the table at each team member. Even bound to a wheelchair, pale and depleted in comparison to the man he had been in the dream world, he's still managed to retain his aura of menace. Ariadne picks at the needle marks in her arms rather than look at him.

"The job should be fairly simple," he continues, passing out a stack of manila file folders. "After all, you already know the mark."

Cobb's the first one to open his file, and the first one to shove it away. "No," he says. "There's no possible way."

Ariadne reaches for her own folder, flipping it open. Saito's face stares up at her from the first page.

Whelan clicks his tongue. "You never did get me the information on Proclus Global's expansion program, so I will do for myself what you've failed to do for me. Clearly Saito plans to fill the vacuum left by Fischer Morrow, a not altogether unwise move, except that my company had contracts with Fischer Morrow, contracts that I doubt Mr. Saito would be willing to renew, given his past experience with Cobol Engineering.

"Your job, then, Arthur," he says, turning to the point man. "Is simply this: you will plant in Saito's mind the desire to play nicely with my company, and in return, provided you've sufficiently taught me how a successful inception is preformed, I will allow your dear companions to live their lives in peace."

Arthur leans forward in his chair. "You're infringing on the terms of our agreement. You told me that you would release the rest of the team into Saito's protection. If something were to go wrong—which, given that Saito is both familiar with our team and with the process of inception itself, is nearly guaranteed—their protection would be forfeit."

"The simple solution to that, of course, would be to perform the job correctly. Consider it an added incentive."

"I told you I would teach you to do an inception, and I will, but the risk of this job is too great. You are setting us up for nearly certain failure, and I can't agree to that."

"You see," Whelan smirks. "That's one of the wonderful things about being in my position; I don't have to ask you to agree to anything, I just tell you to do it.

"Of course there's always the alternative." He nods, and one of his men steps forward, gun sliding from his holster. "You keep telling me what you can't do, and I'll start offing your friends until your can'ts become cans."

"It doesn't have to go that far." Arthur's voice is steady and as unfaltering as his expression, and Ariadne wishes she knew how he does it. "Given the size of Cobol, I have no doubt that there is some other enemy or affiliate who we could incept for the benefit of the company."

"Of course there are others, but this is the one that requires an experienced team, and better still, this is the one that I've already assigned to you. Now, unless any of you have any questions pertaining to the actual job, I'm going to head home and let you do some brainstorming."

His assistant—a woman in her late twenties with a business suit and enough professionalism that Ariadne wonders just how often she watches her boss threaten people with murder—glides forward from her place beside Whelan's cronies and wheels him away from the table.

"Yeah, actually, I have a question," Eames says, causing the woman to pause and Whelan to twist around in his seat. "How long do we have?"

"I'm a reasonable man," Whelan says. "So I will give you a reasonable amount of time to complete this job. Just don't mistake my charity for naivety; if I find any of you working slowly I will have reason to begin lowering the headcount. Anything else?"

He pauses for a few beats before saying, "Then I will see you later, best of luck."

The door barely has time to close behind him before Cobb jerks to his feet, chair crashing backward against the floor, and storms from the room.

Ariadne crosses her arms on the table top and rests her forehead in the nest that they create so that the others won't see the tears in her eyes. She bites her cheek until she can taste blood to keep from screaming.


	21. Chapter 21

_There seems to be quite a few new people following this story, so I wanted to say how much I appreciate all of you (both newcomers and those of you who have been following along for months.) It's such a privilege to have so many of you reading (and taking the time to comment) on my work. _

_~M._

"Yusuf." Arthur's voice is ice skates on frozen lake water; smooth and exacting. "We ran out of time on the last job, but maybe this will give you the opportunity to perfect a compound that will keep us out of limbo. We'll need disguises, Eames; good ones. Saito's watched you forge; he knows what to look for. Ariadne"—Ariadne grinds her eyes into her sleeve for a moment, trying to disguise some of the emotion that she can't quite smother before raising her head. She can see from Arthur's expression that it didn't work.—"I won't know what architecture we'll need until we actually have a plan, but I'd appreciate it if you started working on maze frameworks. His subconscious is going to know something's up from the moment we start dreaming; we'll need to stay as far ahead of it as possible. And Nash, I know you sold Cobb and me out to Saito, and that things didn't work out so well for you, but if you do anything to hinder our work I will kill you myself. You should know not even Whelan's men can save you from that."

The architect's smirk wrinkles up before dropping from his face altogether. He gathers his file and follows Cobb's retreat on jittery legs.

Yusuf is the first to bring his focus back. "This is completely irrational," he says. "Saito was our employer, our team member, and our friend; not to mention the very powerful head of a multi-billion corporation, and our only chance of getting out of here alive. There is no context in which this is anything but a very, very bad idea."

"What other options do we have?" Arthurs twirls the pen in his hand around his knuckles once, before clenching it in his fist. "Look, you, Cobb, and Ariadne will only be helping in the planning stages; if the job itself is successful than Saito won't have any idea, but if something goes wrong then none of you will be anywhere near it, and I'll do my best to convince him that you were not involved."

"Maybe you're looking at this the wrong way, love," Eames says. "The more people we have working the actual job, the higher the chance that we may actually have a shot. Perhaps we could modify the plan and bring Cobb, Ariadne, and Yusuf into the dream with us. It would certainly free you up to focus on the important things, what with not having to worry about chemicals and layouts and the like."

Arthur straightens in his chair. "Shut up, Eames."

"No, listen; it's a reasonable plan, and probably the only one that will get us all through this intact."

"_Reasonable_ to the man who got us into this mess," Yusuf notes darkly.

"What if he's right?"

The silence in the wake of her words is poisonous; Ariadne can see it seeping from narrowed eyes and feel it turning her lungs to ash with every breath.

She licks her lips and continues. "Look, I really don't want to do this—extracting from Whelan's mind was bad enough; planting something in the mind of a man who I consider a friend is completely reprehensible—but if we don't have any other choice than we'd better do a damn good job, and that means all of us, together, just like the first inception. Saito will come here to pick us up, just like Whelan agreed, and before he leaves we can put him under and incept his mind."

"No." Arthur barks the words, draws a shaky breath, and continues in a softer tone. "I won't do this job until you are out of Whelan's reach. Apart from the obvious risks Eames' plan implies, there wouldn't be anything holding Whelan to our agreement once the job is done. I will not risk that."

"You trying to do this with half a team puts us all in danger," Ariadne counters. "Yusuf's right; Whelan might not be able to touch us, but if Saito realizes what we what we've done he's likely to be just as dangerous. Not that we wouldn't deserve it."

Arthur's knuckles are white around the pen. "Don't turn this into some sort of karma game, Ariadne. We had a choice with Whelan, we don't with Saito. This isn't an issue of morality, it's one of survival; your scruples don't apply anymore."

His expression is so focused, so intense.

She drops her gaze, closes her file, and heads for the stairs.

* * *

She's not quite sure what pulls her past her flat to the door with a faded _2_ painted on the wood, but she knocks before she can lose her nerve.

Nash answers, brows raised.

"I want to talk to Cobb," she tells him, if only because she sure as hell doesn't want to speak to the architect who crawled around inside her mind.

He takes a step back and points to the narrow hallway following the left wall of the room. "First door."

She slides past him, back scraping against the doorframe as she tries to stay as far away from him as possible, and moves down the hall.

Cobb answers on the second knock. His eyes are red rimmed, and there's a large brown bottle in his right hand.

She looks at him and can't think of what to say.

"Do you want a drink?" he asks.

"Sure."

He steps back into his room, and she follows. Some secluded part of her brain notes how much this feels like being back in college; camping out in bedrooms to avoid the scrutiny of flatmates.

Cobb leans against the dresser, and Ariadne glances around the room for a chair before tentatively sitting at the foot of his unmade bed.

He holds out the bottle toward her. "Sorry, the only glasses are in the kitchen."

She takes it from him. The white script on the side reads _Jack Daniels_, and she can't help but wonder if Whelan took the time to provide them with American alcohol, or if Cobb somehow managed to smuggle it in his suitcase.

Her first sip burns the back of her tongue and makes her shudder.

"When this is over," Cobb says, taking the bottle back. "When this is over I want you to go back to school, become an architect in the real world, and never do dream work again."

"When this is over I want you to go back to your kids and retire."

He chuckles and nods, before his expression sobers. "How are things going downstairs?"

"It's mostly logistics talk."

"Arthur's planning to go through with it, then?"

Ariadne reaches for the bottle and takes another swig. "He doesn't see any other options."

Cobb laughs again, but the noise is anything but amused. "No, of course he wouldn't." He pauses, eyes on her face with an intensity that makes her want to drop her gaze. "What are you doing in here, Ariadne?"

She can feel her blood thudding through her temples. "I don't know. I couldn't talk about it anymore, and I didn't want to be alone."

His gaze softens until its somewhere between empathy and regret.

Half the bottle's gone before Ariadne comes up with something else to say. "It can't be any later than 10a.m.; it's kind of stupid to be getting drunk this early."

"I think we have a pretty good excuse."

"But if the others want to get started on the job," she pauses, because somewhere in the back of her brain there's a little flag going up, and she has to strain to remember what its attached to. "Are you still working this job with us?"

"Of course."

"It's just, the way you stormed out earlier…"

"I was angry—I still am angry—but if Arthur thinks we should go ahead with it then I'm in."

"Even if you think he's wrong?"

"Even if I think he's completely insane. He's in charge this time around; I trust his judgment even if I don't agree with it."

"And after?"

Cobb's gaze narrows, and his voice drops until she has to lean in to hear him. "We talk to Saito. If we're quick enough—if the job's done right and he doesn't know that side of things—he might be able to get Arthur out alive."

She snatches the bottle back from him. "That's a bigger pipe dream than the inception."

"I know."

She holds the bottle by its neck and spins it around, watching the dark liquid twirl beneath the russet glass. Everything feels warm and hazy and not quite real. "We have to get Eames out, too."

Cobb barks a laugh. "You're funny when you're drunk."

"Usually, yeah, but I'm serious this time around."

"Wanting people to be good won't make them good, Ariadne. Eames has made his choices; we don't owe him anything."

"He told me he was trying to help."

"He told _me_ he was on our side. Never trust a forger, that's rule one."

"Eames told me rule one was don't tell the mark he's the mark."

"That's rule one, too." Cobb's eyes narrow as he takes the whisky back. "The forger thing is rule one-point-five."

Ariadne laughs, feels almost like she can't stop laughing, and knows that she should leave now before the rest of the alcohol makes it to her bloodstream and she ends up doing something stupid. Or more stupid, anyway.

"I think I'm going to go lie down," she tells him, trying to stand with as little sway as possible.

He nods and raises the bottle toward her like a toast.

Nash is in the kitchen, pulling something from the fridge. She doesn't look at him as she maneuvers her way to the door and shuts it behind her.

Three of Whelan's men stand in a row like nesting dolls in the corridor between the flats, and Ariadne prays she looks at least somewhat coherent as she pulls her key from her pocket and threads it into the door. She manages to open it with only minimal fiddling, and she throws them a smile as she steps inside and locks it again.

Thirteen paces to her room, and seven more to the spot by her bed where she dropped her book bag. There is, she's pretty sure, a mangled copy of the collected poems of Sylvia Plath swimming around somewhere in the bottom of the bag, and she's always liked poetry better when she's drunk enough to understand it.

She makes it as far as the folder with her sketches for the Fischer job.

She stars at the drawings, runs her fingers over the designs, and thinks, thinks, thinks, because there's something here she's supposed to realize, if she could just access the section of her brain that keeps telling her so. It feels like trying to pick the image out of a stereogram.

It snaps into focus a moment later and she wonders, at first, if it's just the alcohol talking. She turns the thought over in her mind until she's sure that it would work. She takes a shaky breath, because she knows—she _knows,_ if she could just convince the others—that she's figured out how they can pull off Saito's inception.

She drags herself to her feet and stumbles back to Cobb's flat.


	22. Chapter 22

_First off, have any of you seen Stuart: A Life Backwards? I don't usually go for depressing/disturbing movies based on true stories, but I found it the other day, and since it stars Benedict Cumberbatch (for those of you who've seen Sherlock) and Tom Hardy, I decided to give it a try. Guys, I don't cry during movies, but I lost it for this one. The acting is fantastic and the plot is incredibly tragic. If you can stand movies with graphic scenes/subject matter, then I'd definitely recommend watching it if you haven't already._

_Secondly, this story reached 400 reviews after the last chapter went up, and I really don't know how to express all of the shock, gratefulness, and mild terror that I feel when I think about how many strangers out there in the world are reading my writing. Thank you, first off, to everyone who takes the time to click the review button and write a few words to let me know that you are out there and that you appreciate my work; your comments brighten my day every time they hit my inbox. I also wanted to say a special thank you to the people who have reviewed this story chapter by chapter, or who leave lengthy, in-depth reviews, or both. I so appreciate the time you guys take to tell me what you like, what you don't like, and what you want to see more/less of in the future. It's both thrilling and humbling to see you investing in this story, and I really hope the coming chapters don't disappoint._

_~M._

Cobb can't seem to focus both eyes on her at the same time, and he's not nearly as exuberant as she had hoped in light of her explanation.

"Maybe you should have that lie down and then see how much sense this makes when you wake up."

"I'm not drunk, Cobb." She pauses, collects herself, and tries again. "I'm not _that _drunk. It would work; it would work better than anything else we could come up with."

"It's dangerous."

She squares her shoulders and levels her gaze at him. "We've done it before, and there won't be as many distractions this time around."

He runs his fingers though his hair and paces the room. "Arthur won't go for it."

"Why do you think I came to you first? He'll listen to you."

Cobb recaps the Jack Daniels and rubs a hand over his face. "Can't do it until I'm sober; Arthur will accuse me of being wasted, and you and I both need to think this through when our heads are clear."

Ariadne nods, her brain sloshing around like water inside the fishbowl of her skull.

She makes a face. Cobb laughs just a bit too loud.

"Okay, I'm going to go lie down for real this time."

His laughter fallows her to the threshold of his flat.

* * *

The sun is battering against her window when she wakes, and it takes her a few moments of staring at the glowing red 2:47 of the alarm clock by her bed to remember where she is and what she's doing there.

A muffled knock hammers somewhere beyond her closed door, and she assumes, first, that it's one of the others checking up on her and, second, that the knocking was probably what woke her up in the first place.

She sits up, drops her feet to the floor, and presses her fingers to her temples as her head pounds.

She drags herself off the bed and makes it half way across the room before she hears the creak of the door opening.

Her heartbeat quickens the pounding behind her eyes into a panic as her mind runs through guesses of who might be standing in her living room, darting between images of Whelan's men and Whelan himself.

Her pulse cools an instant later as Arthur's voice cuts into the silence. "You're worse than Eames."

"Hardly—I only get drunk when I have a damn good reason to," Cobb's voice responds. "How's Ariadne?"

"Asleep."

"She needed it."

There's a gap in the conversation, and Ariadne tries to refrain from pressing her ear to the door like a child.

"Listen," Cobb starts again. "She had an idea for the job. It's good, probably the best we're going to think of."

"Now you're going to tell me why I'm not going to like it."

Cobb laughs, but even from down the hall Ariadne can tell it's forced. "She wants to redo the Fischer job; make it a reoccurring dream of sorts with Eames forging Fischer and Whelan in disguise, or something along those lines. We make sure the projections are as close to the originals as possible, have Saito get shot again, and when he goes back into limbo Whelan, Ariadne, and I follow him and do the inception. We wake up, get out, and he ends up in a hotel suite or the like and assumes, hopefully, that he's only dreaming about the job because we're about to be turned over to his custody. It's a fairly reasonable explanation, even to his skeptical mind."

"Are you insane?"

"It's a good plan," the words are quick. The tone falls just short of pleading. "Thoughts and ideas are more fluid that far down; it would work."

"No."

"Arthur—"

Footsteps thunder in the hall, growing louder with ever beat, and Ariadne darts backward away from the door until she stumbles over the bed. She's all tightened muscles and exploding nerves as she waits for the door to slam open and Arthur to drown her in a sea of anger and fear.

Instead the footsteps stop just outside her room. He replaces them with knocks. "Ariadne?"

She can hear the strain beneath the control in his voice.

"Ariadne, I need to talk to you."

She retraces her steps gingerly and opens the door.

His expression rolls from raging to concerned at the sight of her. She can see Cobb over his shoulder, paused, like he's waiting for one of them to make a move so he can know how to react.

It's Arthur who moves first, his hands finding the curve of her neck and the small of her back. He presses his body against hers as his lips find her own in a harsh, frenzied kiss that's all tongue and teeth and its own shade of rage.

He doesn't pull away until they're both gasping, and its only then that she thinks to worry about his ribs.

He recovers first. "I can't let you work this job."

She drops her forehead to his chest so she doesn't have to look at him, doesn't have to watch Cobb's stunned expression over his shoulder. "It's not your choice. My plan would work."

"I don't care."

"Yes you do."

His hands shift to her shoulders. He steps back, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"I'm not a child that you need to protect," she says, before he can put words to the thought in his mind. "We're a team. We work as a team. We make decisions as a team. And I think the team will support me in this."

Air hisses through his teeth. Arthur takes a breath and begins again. "Put aside, for a moment, everything you've heard me say about the danger that you, Dom, and Yusuf would be in if you were to do this, and focus on the dream itself." He cards his fingers through her hair before continuing. "You think, because you've come back from it, that limbo's safe. You haven't seen what it's capable of; you haven't seen the dreamers who don't wake up, or the ones who wake up and can't speak, can't think, can't comprehend. I've lost teammates to it before; some of the best dreamers in the world will spend the rest of their lives in hospitals and nursing homes because they can't even relearn how to feed themselves. I _will not_ let that happen to anyone else."

"And I will not let you do this alone when I have the opportunity to help you," she whispers, and prays to whatever deity might be listening that Cobb won't overhear. "I'm not okay with you dying."

He makes a noise, a growl low in his throat, and pulls away from her. He paces in the short hallway, and she realizes that Cobb is no longer standing in the corridor with them.

"This is why we shouldn't be together," Arthur tells her. "This is what happens when you mix love up in a job like this."

"You many have wanted to mention that before you kissed me just now."

He runs a hand over his hair, before gesturing it toward her. "I'm sorry."

"For the kiss or for freaking out on me?"

His gaze drops, and his silence is answer enough.

"Come on," she says, brushing past him into the living room where Cobb is seated on the couch, focused intently on the hairline cracks in the ceiling. "You too," she adds when she sees him.

"You want to talk to Yusuf," Arthur guesses.

"And Eames."

The pause behind her is palpable. She doesn't have to turn to know Cobb and Arthur are exchanging glances.

* * *

Nash is still absent from the warehouse floor, but Yusuf is organizing test tubes and beakers on his desk, and Eames doesn't appear to have moved from his seat at the table, although is feet are now propped on the tabletop and his attention is bent on scribbling notes into the margins of his folder.

"I had an idea for the job," Ariadne says as she crosses from the stairwell to Arthur's desk, retrieving the PASIV case.

"And you're going to give us a demonstration?" Eames asks, dropping his feet off the table as she sets the device down across from him.

"Not exactly. I'm pretty sure it's going to take a little while to reach an agreement on this, and I figured going under would save some time." She glances, briefly, at the parameter of dark suits lining the room. It's enough time, she hopes for the others to catch the look and make the connection that the less Whelan knows, the better.

Not that Eames won't rat them out anyway.

She gets as much set up as she can, before Arthur takes over with clean movements and nimble fingers. The back of his hand brushes her sleeve in a gesture she assumes is accidental, but sparks in her mind the realization that this is another aspect of him that she adores; the fact that he's willing to help her even when he thinks she's dead wrong.

She takes a seat, feeds her IV needle into her skin in a gesture that made her squeamish not six months ago, and closes her eyes.

The floor settles gently beneath her feet.

The others are tourists taking in the view as they pivot and stare at the room she mocked up one night in her apartment when she should have been working on homework. The pillars, arches, and domes, contrasted by stained glass, mosaics, and frescos. She's never been religious, but she's always had a thing for gothic cathedrals.

"This is beautiful," Cobb says.

"Thanks."

Eames nods in agreement. "Fantastic. Now tell us the plan."

* * *

Yusuf is the first to respond in the aftermath of her explanation. "I spent six years in university, and you keep hiring me as the driver of a make-believe getaway van. This is why I have a policy against going into the field."

Eames chuckles, the sound reverberating off the high ceilings. "There are certainly some details that will need to be worked out, but I like it."

"Of course you do," Yusuf mutters.

Eames' smirk is sickly pleasant.

"The problem," Arthur says. "The main problem, anyway, is that it's a needless risk of my team's lives. Not that I'd expect you to understand that, Eames."

"You pain me Arthur; just because I'm not the most honest man you've ever met doesn't mean I can't do risk assessment."

"Except your version of risk assessment only takes into consideration the safety of one person: you."

Eames' expression darkens, though his tone doesn't falter. "Ah, but my safety is already forfeit. Might as well distract myself with the wellbeing of others."

Arthur doesn't respond. Instead, he turns to Yusuf. "What do you think?"

"We barely made it out intact the first time around; I'm not exactly keen on doing it again," Yusuf says. "Not to mention I know what can happen to you in limbo. Risking that once was plenty for me."

As big as the cathedral is, the walls are beginning to feel too tight. Ariadne takes a step forward and stretches herself to the limits of her stature. "But think about the big picture; all of us running the Fischer job again together almost guarantees that the inception would take. Even with the risk of limbo we'd still be better off than if it's just Arthur, Eames, and Nash setting themselves up for failure."

"Didn't the original inception get started because a team tried a simple extraction on Saito and had it fail?"

"Exactly; if three people couldn't extract something from him before then there's no way three could incept his mind. It has to be all of us, not necessarily rerunning the Fischer job, but all of us working something together."

"Actually, I like the Fischer job idea," Cobb says, pulling his gaze back, once again, from the architecture of the room. "We all know the game plan, we already have the architecture, and the reoccurring dream aspect is an added bonus. We just have to work out the details of running it without Fischer or his projections."

"And how, exactly, do you suggest we do that?" Yusuf asks.

"With Whelan playing tourist we'll have the same number of people," Eames notes. "It's just a matter of forging the right people at the right times so that Saito never catches on that something's amiss.

"Actually," he adds, frowning. "We could just do a straight swap of Whelan for Fischer; Saito will have him in mind anyway what with him coming to collect you three, and you know how people are always becoming other people in dreams. We could keep everything else the same; I'll even forge Browning and have him interact with Whelan."

"It's a little risky, one more aspect his subconscious might reject, but it's not a bad idea," Cobb says.

"You don't have to sound so surprised about it."

Arthur shifts, tugging at his immaculate suit sleeves before drawing their attention. "You're getting off topic. The point here isn't to figure out logistics, it's to decide whether or not this is a viable plan. I can't stress enough how much of a risk this presents."

"But that doesn't mean we shouldn't do it," Ariadne says. "And since this affects all of us, we all get a say."

Eames grins. "I'm in, obviously. It will be an interesting last job."

Ariadne focuses at the pillars behind him and tries not to notice the way her mouth has abruptly gone dry.

Cobb nods. "I think it's our best option."

"If I die and fall into limbo," Yusuf says. "I expect you to get me back out intact, or at least pay my medical bills for as long as I'm a vegetable."

Eames laughs and throws an arm around the chemist's shoulders. Yusuf pushes the arm away. For an instant, Eames' expression falters, before his smile stretches even farther across his face, making him look almost ghastly.

Ariadne has to fight to pry her eyes away. "What about you?" she asks, looking at Arthur.

She can see the mobster in him; the calm, cool features. The absolute control he maintains over himself when he cannot absolutely control the situation around him. "It's your lives on the line," he says. "If this is how you choose to spend them then there's not much I can do to deter you."

She stops herself from trying to tell him that everything will be okay; that it will all work out in the end. It's too big of a lie to try to palm off at a moment like this.

None of them seem able to break the silence after the resolution of their decision. Instead, they explore the cathedral and wait for their time to run out.


	23. Chapter 23

_Once again I'm slow to update, and it doesn't look like that's going to get better anytime soon. I'm dealing with some health issues and my doctors have yet to find something that treats the symptoms without turning me into __an insomnia-plagued zombie. I'm optimistic that we'll find the right medications eventually_, but it's going to take time, and until then my writing schedule is going to be erratic.

_Much love to all of you for reading and reviewing; your interest and comments are incredibly appreciated._

_~M._

"Alright," Whelan says, folding his hands on the tabletop and leering over them at the rest of the team members. "Tell me what you've come up with."

Ariadne drops her gaze to the beige blend of coffee and cream in the mug in her hands and tries to keep her eyes focused. After they'd made the decision to rework the Fischer job, the team began the task of recreating outlines, mockups, and chemicals for the dream. Afternoon bled into evening bled into night, and while the others had made the sane decision to get a few hours of sleep, Arthur had stayed fixed to his desk, and Ariadne had made the gradual transition from working with increasing lethargy to watching Arthur work. He was a study in compulsory focus, and somewhere between the enthralling reel of not-quite-contained expressions that played across his face as he focused on the papers in front of him and the black thought that there might not be too many more nights where she would be able to watch him, the hours melted away. It wasn't until Nash came down to announce that Whelan would be arriving within the hour for a briefing on their progress that Ariadne had realized that the whole night was gone. She'd barely had time to shower, change, and steal coffee from Cobb's flat before they'd been shepherded back to the conference table.

Arthur had used the time to transform back into their immaculate point man.

He passes around his own collection of folders, meets Ariadne's eyes as she drops hers on the table without opening it, and begins.

"We're changing the timeline somewhat," he says. "My team's decided to help run the inception, and in exchange you're going to let me be the one to call Saito and arrange their transfer."

Whelan's smile is the indulgent smirk of a parent to a child. "And I'm expected to sit by while you contact the mark? Honestly, do you take me for such a fool as that?"

"You're welcome to listen in if you want. I'm not going to endanger my team's lives by letting Saito know what we're planning to do to him. My only intent is to ensure that he will know exactly who needs to be put in the ground if you go back on your word when everything is done."

"Perhaps we can compromise," Whelan says, "provided your plan is acceptable. Why don't you explain it so we can reach an agreement?"

Arthur straightens one of his sleeves before responding. "There were three levels to the Fischer job. The first was the middle of a city, where we kidnapped Fischer and had Eames forge his godfather and attempt to get a password out of him. We didn't realize Fischer's subconscious was militarized, and Saito was shot in the crossfire. The second level was a hotel, where Cobb was really the only one with Fischer while the rest of us stayed more or less out of the way and set up the decent into the third level—into Fischer's mind—where we set up a snow-covered stronghold to make Fischer break into his own subconscious and—in essence—incept himself with the idea we gave him. Saito made it to the base, but he died before we could finish the job. The sedative we used dropped him into limbo. He was down there for decades before Cobb found him."

"That's a very long lead into what I hope—for your sakes—is a very good plan," Whelan notes.

"Our goal is to recreate the events of the original inception as Saito experienced them, the only difference being that when he drops into limbo, we follow him down and incept his mind."

"Won't he be suspicious about having the dream over again?"

"He's been down to limbo," Cobb cuts in. "I can guarantee he's already redreaming those years, at very least."

Whelan leans back in his seat and looks at the team over crossed arms. "I suppose that takes care of one of the three glaring problems with your plan."

"What are the other two?" Arthur asks.

"The first is the conspicuous absence of Robert Fischer from this table. Are you expecting him to join our little escapade, or is your hope that Saito's already forgotten about him?"

"We don't need Fischer," Arthur tells him. "We have you."

"You'll forgive me for not following your ambiguity."

"By the time we do the inception, I'll have made the call telling Saito what you've done and asking for his help to ensure the safety of my team. You'll already be on his mind, so I don't think his subconscious will have trouble accepting you in Fischer's place. We'll show you everything that Fischer did in the dreams and you'll play them out in the inception."

Whelan chuckles. "Interesting."

"What was your third concern?"

"I'm surprised you haven't already guessed it. Or perhaps you have and are hoping I don't know enough about your work to note the problem. Visiting limbo puts us at risk for mental atrophy. Do you really think I am naive enough to be led down there?"

"There is a risk, but we aren't sending you down alone. At this point you'll be following Dom and Ariadne. I hate you, but I wouldn't risk their lives unless it was absolutely necessary."

"No, I suppose ruining the minds of your closest friend and your lover is wrong, even in the eyes of a former mobster."

Arthur's right hand curls into the beginning of a fist, but Ariadne doesn't notice any other reaction to the words.

Whelan looks delighted. "Perhaps now would be a good time to mention that my surveillance system goes beyond the men in the suits. I would be very, very careful if I were you."

He waves his hand, and his assistant glides forward to guide Whelan's wheelchair away from the table. "I like the plan, Arthur," he says over his shoulder. "Let my men know when you're ready to begin practicing."

He doesn't even make it out of the room before Eames leans across the table and offers Ariadne another round of target practice. She should do some work, or get some sleep, or try to figure out everything Whelan's heard over the past several days, and how screwed it makes all of them, but she agrees.

She's ready for the break from reality.

* * *

He'd just finished showing her how to dismantle and reassemble the sniper gun she assured him she would never need to know how to use when the question she's been wanting to ask Arthur—the question she's put off because she's fearful of the things it will make him think and feel—bubbles up her throat and bursts on her lips.

"What will you wish you had done before your death?"

He doesn't falter in his motions to adjust the scope, and she can't decide if he's offended or confused or too focused to have heard her. Then he meets her gaze.

"Stolen a painting from the Louvre, made peace with my father, fallen in fucking love."

His words bring her back to high school, sophomore year, on an orchestra trip to Paris where they got stuck in the Louvre for six hours because someone had stolen a small piece of art and the staff had to search everyone because there were no video cameras. They never caught the thief.

"What happened between you and your father?"

"The usual; his liquor receipts were too long and his temper was too short. We fell out for the last time when I was seventeen over my grades in school and his lack of a job. I left right after, haven't visited him since."

"I'm sorry," she says.

He passes her the gun and shows her how to wrap her body around it so her eye is at the scope and her finger is on the trigger before he says, "You don't need to be sorry. There are plenty of sad bastards in this world; I'm comfortable enough being one of them."

She picks out the form of a zombie shuffling three blocks down—how Eames can slip up on things like adding stop signs on street corners and still perfectly disguise his whole subconscious as the undead is beyond her—and pulls the trigger. The creature turns its head in her direction before falling.

"It doesn't seem like there are any happy back-stories in this line of work," she notes as he shows her how to reload the gun. "Cobb's was good for a while, but it fell apart."

"That's because happy people have close families and fulfilling jobs. They don't need the thrill of breaking the law to keep themselves content."

"Is that what this is for you?"

"It used to be," he says with a plastic smile. "Now show me how good you can get with this gun."

* * *

It's warm and dark and Arthur's arms are so tight around her that she can feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back. So tight she's sure he can feel the tension she can't quite shake.

She recites Plath to herself—_dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real_—as she works up the courage to speak.

"I don't want you to kill him."

She waits out the silence as he examines her words.

"Eames?" he guesses at last.

"Yeah."

"He's dead either way."

"But you don't have to be the one to do it."

He sighs hot breath on the back of her neck. "Is there anyone you don't love?"

"There was a creeper in a few of my classes at the university that I wasn't a fan of."

He doesn't laugh, but she doesn't expect him to. Instead he says, "I'll think about it," as he peels himself away from her body and heads for the door with the excuse of needing to make a few more notes in Saito's file.

She turns on the lamp by the bed and begins digging through her suitcase.

He pauses, hand on the doorknob. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to find something to wear so I'm not building mazes in my pjs, as cute as they are."

"It's the middle of the night."

She slips off her camisole and pulls on a bra. "If you don't sleep, I don't sleep."

He does laugh this time, a jolt of exasperation as he moves back across the room to plant his hands on her hips and his lips on her mouth.

He pulls her back to the bed and lays her back under the sheets before climbing in beside her and turning out the light.


	24. Chapter 24

_I'm on my fifth trial medication, and so far it's not proving effective for my problem. It'll be more of the same spastic posting schedule until my doctor manages to figure this thing out._

_I can't tell you all how much your reviews mean to me. I don't take any of them for granted; just knowing that you're out there and enjoying my work is so humbling. Thank you again for the time you dedicate to reading and commenting on my work; it is always greatly appreciated._

_~M._

"These doors are wrong," Ariadne points out. "You've got the hinges on the wrong side, and the locks need to be moved up about an inch and a half."

Eames lowers his binoculars and looks back follow Ariadne's gaze. "The man will be dying rather quickly by the time he gets here, love; I hardly think he's going to spend the time focusing on door hinges."

"This may just be some joyride for you," Cobb says, voice sharpening. "But it's vital for the rest of us. If there are inconsistencies, Saito will notice them, and if your sloppy dream work tips him off that something's wrong then I swear Arthur will be lucky if there's enough of you left to kill after I'm through."

"There's no need to get testy, I'm just pointing out the obvious." Eames' smile is sickly charming, and Cobb's fists clench for a moment before he straightens out his fingers and raises his hand.

Eames flinches when the extractor grabs his binoculars.

Yusuf had been the one to point out that if Whelan was going to drop into limbo with them, he wouldn't be able to dream the third level, and Eames had been quick to volunteer his services. It had only taken the others a few minutes to realize he was their only option.

The hinges and locks realign themselves, and accomplishment stirs itself into the edges of Eames' grin.

"So," he asks as they continue through the base, avoiding the sharp glances of passing projections. "What's the secret revenge plan, then?"

"There isn't one," Cobb says.

"Come on; I know I'm not the most trustworthy individual, but if you're going to pull something on Whelan then the third level would be an ideal spot. You don't need to tell me everything, but if you could give me some hints about what I could add to make things easier for you, it would be better for all of us."

"There is no plan; the plan was ruined as soon as you sold us out to Whelan and the new plan is that you die and Arthur is forced to take the fall for your stupidity."

Eames holds his gaze for a moment, before squinting off into white expanse beyond the walls of the base. "Deflection isn't bad for a first step, but you're rather transparent. You'll want to work on that before Whelan joins us on these little practice runs."

"If you make him think we're up to something—" Cobb begins before Eames cuts in.

"Cobb, how many years have you known me, and how many times have I turned traitor even when the other side had more to offer me?"

His expression holds no hint of the smirk that stretched across it only a moment before, and Ariadne watches as Cobb's shoulders roll forward into a pose that makes him look defensive. He says nothing and Eames continues.

"I'd be the first to admit that I'm not much in the way of decent or moral, and that my collective list of sins would make a priest faint, but I'm selfish enough to look out for the people in this world who give me work and keep me entertained. You've known me long enough to have seen that in my character, I'm sure; it's somewhere between the cocky attitude and the flawless forging skills."

He pauses again, and again Cobb doesn't speak.

"All I'm saying"—he likes his lips—"All I'm saying is it would take a complete sod to exchange the safety of his friends for the opportunity to die at the end of the deal. You all agree I'm good at risk assessment, so there's got to be a damn good reason why I would backstab you and put all of our lives in danger." He watches Cobb in silence for a moment before reaching into his pocket for his phone. "Anyway, we have thirty-seven minutes left. If you two are done picking apart my work, Ariadne and I can get some forging practice in."

Ariadne nods and Eames begins to lead the way toward the locked room at the center of the bunker, before turning back to the statue that Cobb has become. "You don't have to believe me; it's just something to think about."

In thirty-seven minutes Eames teaches Ariadne how to forge Saito's appearance, and promises to get her speaking and acting like him by the time they work the job. She doesn't ask why he picked Saito and Eames doesn't volunteer an explanation. As long as they don't have a reason, they aren't doing anything wrong.

Cobb doesn't join them until just before the time runs out.

* * *

"I need a favor."

Yusuf glances around the empty ring of desks before looking up over the tops of his reading glasses to meet Ariadne's gaze. "It took you longer than I thought it would," he says. "My answer is no."

"You haven't even heard what I'm going to ask yet." Ariadne leans against the edge of his desk.

"Your idea of recreating the Fischer job involves you taking another trip back into limbo, and you've waited until the rest of the team is gone to talk to me. Either you're about to ask for a compound that will get you down into limbo for practice, or you're tired of the lack of attention Arthur's paid you recently and you want my help making him jealous. Either way, my answer is no."

"This whole job depends on what we do down there," Ariadne counters. "Cobb said Saito had built an entire city during his stay; we have to be able to know exactly what it's like if we're going to be effective."

Yusuf takes off his glasses and leans back in his chair. "I know you're new to this, so you don't quite understand the specifics of our roles. My primary job as a chemist is to ensure the physical and mental safety of the dreamers. Sending you into limbo as part of this job is irresponsible enough; you'd be tempting fate by practicing down there. Cobb was once an architect; have him recreate what he saw."

"But he didn't have time to see everything; it won't be enough."

"Then I suggest you come up with a different plan."

Ariadne presses her palm against her left temple and squeezes her eyes shut. "Yusuf, please."

He's quiet enough that she can hear the men in suits shifting their stances alone the wall. She opens her eyes to find Yusuf staring up at the ceiling.

"There might be another way," he says finally.

"What do you mean?"

"There's been a bit of experimentation recently with imprinting specific pieces of the subconscious onto dreamscapes. Some psychologists are hoping that they will one day be able to raise suppressed memories in their patients by triggering them to play out in shared dreams. There are few chemists who will even talk about the work because of the risk that creating dream worlds from memories presents, but if it were successful then Cobb would be able to recreate all of the structured aspects of his and Saito's limbo experiences in a safe dream level. Of course, the right compounds have yet to be created."

"I have full confidence in you," she says, squeezing his shoulder before heading for the stairs.

She makes it to the hallway before the door to Cobb's flat is thrown open and she's shoved up against the wall. Nash has his hand on her mouth and his arm tight across her neck before she can speak.

"It's okay, it's okay," he whispers in her ear as she fights to breathe. "I'm sorry; this hallway's the only spot without cameras, although it's still bugged."

She claws at his arms, tries to kick him away, but he's wearing a leather jacket with gloves to match, and he's standing too close for her to get any real momentum.

"Stop it!" he hisses. "Listen, I just want to talk. I'm going to let go of you, and it would be helpful if you didn't scream or run."

His grip relaxes, and she shoves him with all her strength, sending him staggering. She's less than fifteen feet from her door. If she ran she could probably get inside before he recovers.

The thoughts flicker through her mind, but he's already played to her curiosity. She puts enough distance between them to give her time to scream if he grabs at her again, and waits for him to speak.

He wipes the palms of his hands on the thighs of his pants before glancing up at her. "I just wanted to tell you that you can't trust Eames."

Ariadne can barely pick out the words, but she locks her knees and refuses to step closer.

"Whatever you're planning," he continues, "if he finds out about any of it he'll go straight to Whelan and you'll end up in another of his traps."

"On the list of people I trust, you're even lower than Eames," she snaps softly.

"But I want the same thing you want." Nash shifts his weight from one foot to the other and can't quite seem to keep her gaze. "Whelan's had me under his thumb since the first job with Saito. If you guys were to pull something, there's the chance I could get away from this mess and disappear until everything settles down."

"Why wouldn't Eames want that, too?"

"Because if he keeps reporting you to Whelan then he has a chance of making it out of here alive."

The floor creaks somewhere farther down the hall and Nash jerks and glances around. He takes a step forward and adds, "Don't tell Eames your plans, don't mention this conversation, and don't trust him."

He's gone in a flash of oily hair and cheap cologne, and Ariadne walks her fingers over the band of pain he left on her neck and realizes that this new life of hers will never stabilize.


	25. Chapter 25

___Thanks to all of you who wished me luck with my health stuff; I'm still in the middle of it and your support is really appreciated._

_One of you asked me quite a bit ago how far into the story we were, and I said that I'd give some sort of warning before the end. If things work out, I'm guessing there will be about five or six more chapters, depending on how the writing goes. No promises, but I thought I'd let you know._

_Your reviews, as always, are my motivation and inspiration, and I am always ecstatic to hear from you._

_~M._

Ariadne fights the tremors in her hands as she locks the door behind her and tries opening it twice to make sure it's secure. She's not sure whether she's hiding from Nash or Eames or the truth that one of them is lying to her, but her muscles won't stop shaking and her mind won't stop whispering that it's going to take more than a deadbolt to set everything right again.

Her room is empty, but Arthur's door is cracked. She peers into the darkness for a moment before changing into her pajamas and stepping inside.

She can just make out the edge of the bed and the outline of Arthur's shoulder in the green glow of his alarm clock. Following the contours of the bed around to the far side, she peels back the blankets and climbs in.

Arthur hisses in his sleep, and Ariadne remembers his ribs and wonders how much pain he's been hiding when he's awake. She reaches out to brush her fingers over the bruises she knows mottle the skin of his chest.

A hand catches hers, and the bed creaks as Arthur tenses. She can't see him, and the stillness underscores her shaking.

"It's me," she whispers to the black silhouette of his face.

He's quiet for a long moment, before sliding up to sit with his back against the headboard. "What's wrong?" he asks, reaching for the lamp.

She knows better than to tell him with Whelan recording their every word. Joining him at the top of the bed, she takes one of his hands in both of hers and tries to focus on the feel of smooth skin and slender fingers.

"Ariadne." Her name falls from his lips in four weighty syllables.

"Let's get out of here," she says. "We can make a rope ladder out of sheets, kick out one of the windows, and disappear."

He reaches up his free hand to brush her hair from her eyes. When he speaks, his words are soft. "We could find Cobb's children and tell them that their father isn't coming back."

"We could all leave together, run off into the night, maybe go see some pyramids."

"They are quite a sight."

The steadiness of his voice filters the adrenaline from her system, trading confused panic for exhaustion.

Arthur seems to notice the change. He lies back down and pulls her beside him, arms wrapped tightly around her waist. "You still haven't told me what was wrong," he murmurs into her hair.

She listens to the rhythm of his breathing and doesn't answer.

* * *

The edge of the roof over the herbalist's shop on the corner of 17th and 142nd is just barely wide enough to keep Ariadne from getting soaked in the downpour as she waits on the sidewalk for her ride. She's never been much for the city, she is grateful for the way the skyscrapers help block the wind. She does wish, though, that she had a coat.

The red sedan pulls up right on schedule, and Cobb reaches across the seat to open the door for her. "We've got three and a half minutes if Eames can keep control of his projections," he says as she climbs inside.

"It'll help that there are no trains this time around."

"It is one less thing to worry about," Cobb agrees, hitting the gas.

Ariadne turns in her seat to look back at Yusuf. "Something feels different about this level."

"It's been a bit since I last dreamed it. I may be out of practice," Yusuf tells her, his voice jerking at the end as they take a sharp left.

"It's fine for now," Cobb dismisses before Ariadne can say anything more. "Just make sure it's right by the time we do the job."

"Of course. I imagine Arthur will make us rerun the levels until everything is immaculate."

Cobb snorts a laugh and Aridne grins and leans back in her seat.

Their timing is perfect for once. The scene takes on an eerie haze of deja vu as Cobb maneuvers around stopped cars and heads toward the sound of gunshots. The cab at the center of the fray is a shell of broken glass and battered metal, but it's true to Ariadne's memory. From the driver's seat, Arthur catches her gaze for the fraction of a second before slamming into reverse and racing away from the fight.

Cobb leads the way to the warehouse as Ariadne compliments Yusuf on the detail work in the broken pavement. He laughs and reminds her that she had been the one to suggest it back when they were shaping the dream the first time around.

They park, and the cab slams to a stop beside them. The hairs on the back of Ariadne's neck spike when she catches the anger written across every line in Arthur's face.

"This isn't a game!" he shouts, jerking his car door open and closing it with a slam that shivers the shattered remains of his window.

"Thank you for reminding me, I'd forgotten in between the near-constant commentary from you and Cobb." Eames counters, running to close the warehouse door.

"It looked good from where we were," Cobb says.

"Yes, it was fine if we don't mind Saito surviving through all three dream levels," Arthur tells him. "None of the bullets would have even gotten close to hitting him."

Eames joins the ring of bodies. "Why should they? There was nobody in his seat to shoot at. It's not like it'll be my projections in the actual dream, anyway; as long Saito's subconscious remembers what happened, or close to it, we'll be fine."

"If we can't be accurate in the practice runs, we won't be accurate in the job. Get this right or we'll all be compromised."

"Don't you think you're over-exaggerating just a bit? We've done this before; we'll be fine. You're just testy because the stakes are higher."

Arthur glares Eames, then at his watch, then at the rest of the team. "We have forty minutes. Let's take it from the top again. Eames, reset the scene."

"Say please, darling."

Arthur grabs the back of Eames' neck and slams his face into the roof of the cab. The sound of skin and bone hitting metal resonates through the warehouse with a sickening crack. "Do it now."

Eames wipes at the blood trickling from his nose. "Your skin's getting thinner, Arthur. I'd watch myself if I were you; nothing good can come from a brittle point man." He turns toward the others, blood sliding over his lips to drip from his chin. "Shall we?"

* * *

The next three days are devoted to practicing the events in the dreams until they're instinctual. In the evenings, Ariadne scours her reflection in the bathroom mirror, looking for signs of the aging she's been feeling in the expanse of dreamworld time.

Arthur catches her the third night.

"It's normal to feel strange after longer stretches," Arthur says without asking what she's doing. "Most jobs don't require this much time in the field."

"How do you stop feeling like this?"

"You don't. After a while you get used to it."

He steps up behind her and wraps his arms over her stomach. His reflection looks young—barely pushing thirty—but Ariadne can see the years in his eyes.

"Have you ever added up how much time you've spent in shared dreams?" she asks.

His mouth curls into the ghost of a smile. "Twenty-two years."

The next question makes it past her lips before she can think. "How many times have you died?"

"Thousands."

There's a pause as she thinks back over all the times she's been killed since first meeting Cobb. Only a handful, but she knows how it sits in a heart. The memory of each one drags her down just a bit farther, and she's already caught herself wondering how long it takes before the weight of death becomes too heavy for a mind to bear without breaking.

"Does it ever get easier?"

He meets her gaze in the glass for a moment before kissing her temple and stepping from the room.


	26. Chapter 26

_This chapter moves the story along pretty quickly. I hope none of you mind too much; I sacrificed some details for the sake of keeping the plot interesting._

_Thanks to all of you for reading and reviewing; I really appreciate it!_

_~M._

Yusuf begins test runs of his subconscious-unlocking compound the same day Whelan joins their walkthroughs. Cobb and Nash assist the chemist in running a gauntlet of experiments with the new serum while the others introduce Whelan to the dream layouts.

They regroup in the evening to do their first real test run—still divided into three separate trips under; even Arthur's desire for exacting accuracy won't let them risk falling into limbo. Ariadne shifts in her lawn chair to lean toward Yusuf and ask how the compound is working. He shakes his head and tells her it's still too unstable just before Arthur presses the plunger.

Whelan is a natural. 'Natural,' Eames notes, when Whelan is handcuffed in the other room of the first dream's warehouse, means he's slick enough to find what people want and use it to his advantage.

In six days Yusuf perfects his compound. In nine Cobb, Whelan, and Ariadne can maneuver through Saito's dreamworld with exacting accuracy, and have blocked out the game plan.

That night, as Cobb winds the IV lines and arranges everything back in the PASIV, Arthur gets his phone call to Saito. The businessman is back in Japan with a meeting in London that's vitally important, and will two days be a short enough amount of time?

Whelan gives the nod as he listens in, and Arthur says that will be fine, see you in two days.

Whelan makes the arrangements to have his jet take them to Heathrow in the morning. Arthur grabs Ariadne's hand and leads her up to their flat.

He kisses her on the threshold like the world is ending. She presses, 'I love you, I love you, I love you' into his skin as he breathes, 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.'

They've let themselves be consumed by their work; raising the job to drown out any thoughts of the future, but their monuments to the present are shattering, and Ariadne realizes that they have wasted too much time.

She holds back her tears until they are sitting together in her bed, sweat cooling on their bodies. He holds her, head resting against her own, and she loves him because he can sit in silence with her and not say things like, 'It's okay,' or 'everything will work out.'

They never formed a plan. She never let Eames teach her anything else after Nash grabbed her in the hallway, and there was never enough time alone for the team to plan anything. There's a hope in the back of her mind that Saito will work some sort of miracle, but she knows better than to trust in her own optimism.

Arthur waits until her eyes have run dry before speaking. "You'll have to go into hiding for a while, just in case Whelan decides to tie up loose ends. Get Saito to put you up in one of his homes for at least a month; his security should be enough to keep you safe. After that, Cobb can get you a fake passport and some currency. It's safest to hide in poor countries and remote towns. Pick an alias, change your hair color and clothing style, and don't ever pay for anything with a credit card, even if it's not in your real name. Watch out for security cameras. Don't stay in the same place for more than a few weeks, and always keep an eye out for people who seem out of place. If you see anything unusual, get out."

"I don't want to talk about this right now," she tells him.

"I just want to make sure you'll be safe after this is all over."

She pulls back so that she can see his face. "It's hard enough to map all the way to the end of the job. I don't want to think about anything else."

"If something were to happen to you after all this..." His voice drifts when she looks away and can't stop blinking. "Sorry."

She forces her eyes back to him, meeting his gaze with a glare. "Stop apologizing for the things you can't control."

He opens his mouth, shuts it again, and pulls her into his lap. "I love you."

They sit together in silence until the morning comes.

* * *

The team reruns the dream levels on the plane, making sure the details are perfect and fresh in their minds.

Whelan doesn't bother to bring his guards along for the ride. Instead, he smirks as he explains that he has snipers following Cobb's family around, and that if he doesn't check in at the right times, or if he gives the order, they'll be shot. "Not to mention the personal repercussions you'll all suffer," he adds as an afterthought. "Trust me when I say they'll be far more dire than you can imagine."

Ariadne turns her head because looking at the man has become physically painful, and finds Eames staring at her. His hands are fisted on his thighs, but he raises a brow at her, and, in spite of Nash's words of warning still camped out in the back of her mind, she can't help but think of what Eames told her weeks ago during their shooting lesson. She tells herself it was just a fluke that he was right about Whelan having people watching Cobb's family, but there's a small part of her that doesn't quite believe it.

They make it to Heathrow by 2:10pm, local time, and follow Whelan's slow, cane-aided, walk through the airport like leashed dogs.

In the car that Whelan has waiting for them, Arthur slides in beside Ariadne and takes his hand in hers. She tightens her grip and doesn't let go.

* * *

"Alright, then," Whelan says as he shuts the door of the penthouse suite he shepherded the team into. "Let's go over the logistics."

He reaches for the remote and turns on the tv that nearly covers a whole wall of the suite's living room. The screen lights up with the interior of a bedroom. The room is vacant, and it only takes Arthur a second to make the connection that Ariadne is still sorting out.

"You bugged his hotel room."

Whelan grins at the point man. "Of course. We can't exactly complete our task without knowing when our dear mark has put himself to bed. I've also had my people set up an airborne sleep aid to be triggered so we can ensure he won't wake as we get settled." He turns to Yusuf before continuing. "I assume you have the capacity to keep him asleep until after we've left his room?"

Yusuf nods and Whelan continues.

"The rest is all very straight forward: you work the job like you're supposed to, we fly back to Cairo, Saito picks most of you up, and you return to your lives just a bit wiser. I assume that is all clear enough for you."

"Actually, no," Eames says. "Those of us who won't be making it on Saito's plane are a bit curious as to how the rest of our lives will unfold."

He forms the words with simple curiosity, and Ariadne wonders how he can be so nonchalant about the countdown that's been set over his days. She counts it as a point for Nash's argument.

"Let's figure that out when the time comes, shall we? No sense getting worked up over the future when there's so much in the present that needs our attention," Whelan responds, before turning his focus back to the rest of the team. "Now, we have several hours, I'd imagine, before Saito finally succumbs to sleep. You are free to do as you'd like as long as you don't leave the suite. I had the hotel disconnect the phone line before our arrival, so don't worry about trying to call for help. Enjoy yourselves; maybe get some sleep or watch a film. Just know that you will be held accountable for your actions during this time."

He turns and disappears up a broad flight of stairs.

There's silence as the team waits for the click of the door to whatever room Whelan has found on the second story.

The door shuts, and Yusuf picks up his bag and moves to the sofa. "I brought enough somnacin for several more rounds of practice if any of you would like."

There's a beat of silence before Arthur says, "We were under nearly the whole way here. I think we're all ready for the job this time around."

"The job, sure, but there are other things you can do down there," Eames cuts in. "Time is of the essence for you and me; have some fun before the carnival closes."

"No." The word is flat, and Arthur is already moving up the stairwell by the end of it.

Eames drops into an armchair and cocks his head towards the others. "I didn't actually think he'd go for it, but I did try."

Ariadne starts up the stairs after Arthur, but a hand on her wrists makes her pause. She follows the limb up to the neutral expression hung carefully on Cobb's face.

"Let me talk to him," the extractor says.

The 'no' is already halfway up her throat before she catches it. As much as she would will it otherwise, she's pretty sure that years of close friendship—decades of killing and dying for one another, even if it's only in dreams—is stronger than several weeks of 'I love you's and sharing a bed.

She steps off the stair and Cobb brushes past, his shoes tapping softly on the wood.

"Well, love," Eames says, rising from his seat to retrieve the PASIV case from the table where Arthur had set it. "Since your previous plans seem to have fallen through, I wouldn't mind taking a few moments to show you an idea that I had."

Ariadne glances at Yusuf, who shrugs, before looking back at the forger's attempts to set up the device. Eames only makes it a few seconds before Yusuf intervenes, pushing him away from the spider web the tubing has begun to resemble.

"What do you want to show me?" Ariadne asks as Eames settles back into his chair.

"Just a few minor additions to the third dream level. Nothing too invasive, but I figured I should run them by you before using them in the job. Are you interested, or should I go upstairs and ask Cobb for his input instead?"

She's still feeling impossibly old and she still doesn't trust him.

Yusuf pauses, vials in hand, to look at her.

She holds out until the curiosity has eaten through her worries and doubts and fears of what one little dream can do to a mind when the wrong person is in control. "Five minutes."

"Five minutes will be plenty," Eames assures as she perches on the edge of the sofa where Yusuf is hooking up the PASIV. The leather under her fingertips is impossibly soft, and she has to wonder just how much a night in a place like this costs. The amount, she knows, will never be enough to give Whelan even a moment's pause.

"Here," Yusuf says, passing her a needle that she pins into her vein as quickly as any nurse. "Just remember you don't have to stay down there the full time. Don't let him manipulate you."

Eames reaches for his own IV. "Lovely little pep talk, but I assure you I have no nefarious plans, just a few ideas."

"Are you ready?" Yusuf asks Ariadne without looking across to Eames' seat.

She nods, and he counts down from three.

Closing her eyes, Ariadne waits for the plunge.


	27. Chapter 27

_There's been a significant drop in reviews over the last few chapter, which I'm hoping is mainly due to my sporadic updating. I'm so sorry for the delays; I wish I could be more consistent, but life is still getting in the way. Thank you to those of you who have been letting me know what you think of this fic; I'm really hoping the rest of you are still enjoying it!_

_~M._

Ariadne recognizes Whelan's home bedroom almost immediately. They were pressed for time on the last job, but that doesn't mean she didn't spend days down here making sure every knot in the wood floor and each fiber of the duvet was perfect in Eames' mind.

What she doesn't recognize is the blue and pink sundress, or the woman wearing it. She stands with one hand wrapped white-knuckled around a candlestick, and the other pressed to her cheek, where it does a poor job of covering the splotch of red beneath it. Her eyes are narrow and wet.

Ariadne takes a step back, and the woman follows her. "I'm done with this!" she shouts, gesturing sharply with the candlestick as the tears slide down her cheeks and over her hand. "I'm sick of the lies and the abuse and the promises to change that never come true. You don't love me; you love the idea of a woman on your arm who swoons at your every word."

"Eames?"

"If you try to follow me I swear I'll go to the press and tell them what a bastard you are."

Her eyes widen, and her mouth opens just before a gunshot cracks over Ariadne's left shoulder. The architect turns to look for the shooter as the woman crumples in the corner of her vision.

There is no shooter.

Ariadne looks back to the woman on the floor. Her right eye is vacant, and her left eye is the mutated crater of the entry wound. There's blood splattered across the room and haloed around the woman's head.

It's been thousands of times since Ariadne's first experience with death in shared dreaming, but there are still goosebumps on her arms.

She almost screams when the body blinks and starts to pull itself off the ground.

"Good, yeah?" the corpse asks, reaching up to wiggle its fingers around in the hollow that was once its left eye. "This is the first time I've ever forged a murder, believe it or not. I'm rather proud of myself."

Ariadne shivers. "What the hell is all this?"

"Her name is Anise," the woman says, pointing at herself. "Arthur found her when he was researching Whelan, and I found her when I was looking through Arthur's files. She's not the best hand in the deck, I admit—it's been over ten years since he killed her, and the man has enough blood on his hands to float a ship— but I think there may still be an emotional tie there. I've made sure Whelan understands the problems we ran into with Mal on the last inception; if we can make him think it's his own subconscious that's controlling this dream level, maybe we can botch the job without receiving the blame—or a bit less of it, anyway."

Ariadne plays a mantra of 'don't trust him, don't trust him, don't trust him' in her mind as she asks, "Have you shown this to any of the others?"

"No." Anise reaches for one of the pillows on the bed, pulls the case off it, and wipes her face on the silk. "Their reactions will be more natural if they don't know I'm the one doing this."

"This won't help you or Arthur."

"Well, not directly, no. But I am counting on you and the others to be filling Saito in on the details of our situation while I'm busy distracting Whelan. You'll come up with a brilliant plan that we'll execute when we wake up."

"And Cobb's children will be killed by Whelan's sniper."

"Avoiding that would be part of the brilliant plan, obviously."

Ariadne walks to the edge of Whelan's bed and sits down. Nash's warning echoes perpetually through her mind. She wants to ask about it, but she doesn't know what the repercussions would be. "Why should I trust you?" she says, instead.

Anise joins her on the bed, folding the pillowcase and setting it down to stain the bedsheets. "You should never trust me, Ariadne. But you do, so the point is moot."

Ariadne takes a deep breath and compresses it into one word. "No."

"Not that I doubt you, but—"

"I mean no to the dream. It's too much of a risk for too small a chance of escape. You ratted us out on the last job; you don't get to pretend to make things right this time around."

"I'm not asking for your permission so much as your blessing on this one, love. I'm the dreamer, and this is the dream I'll be creating. I just thought someone else should know."

"I'll tell the others."

Anise lays back on the bed and smiles up at her. "I'd prefer it if you didn't, but that isn't the—"

"I'll tell Whelan."

Anise's expression crackles for an instant before solidifying. "No you won't. You may think you hate me right now, but however strong that emotion is, it still can't overwhelm your love for Arthur, or your willingness to try anything to save him."

Her head shakes and the words are out of Ariadne's mouth before she can stop them. "Nash told me about you."

The bed shifts just a bit as Anise stiffens. "What?"

"I know you're still working for Whelan, and I know it's your job to make me believe that you're on our side. I'll tell him about this dream and I'll tell him that I know you're still his mole. I'm not sure what he'll do then, but I doubt he has much use for spies with blown covers."

Ariadne doesn't expect Anise to meet her gaze after the threat, but the woman's one remaining blue-gray eye catches her own, and Ariadne can feel the sorrow in it beginning to hollow out a pit in the center of her chest.

"Tell him." It's Eames' voice now; Eames' voice from Anise's body. "Tell him about this and watch the surprise flicker in his eyes just before he picks up the phone to call his sniper. Remember this moment when Cobb and Yusuf are bodies on the floor and he's leveling his gun at Arthur's head, love. You may not believe me, but your stakes are too high to be calling bluffs right now."

Ariadne takes a breath and wills her voice not to break. "I know you're lying."

"Then tell him," Anise says in her own voice. She draws herself upright and steps toward the door. "Just remember that I tried to stop you."

The room feels wide and empty when she leaves. Ariadne draws the blood off the floor and erases it from the furniture as she waits for their time to run out.

* * *

They file into the bedroom in silence. Ariadne keeps her eyes on the carpet and tries not to think about Saito's form dwarfed and defenseless on the bed.

It's impossible. All she can think is that their endgame in this line of work is vulnerability; to get the mark at their absolute weakest point— physically, mentally, and emotionally—and extort them. It's wrong. It's so garishly, hellishly wrong that she can't figure out why she didn't run from the Whelan job the moment she realized what it's like to have something stolen from your mind.

There's a man beside her with smooth hair and immaculate clothes, but she will not think about him factoring into the equation.

She helps Eames collect chairs and set them in a circle around Saito's bed as the others set up the PASIV, sort chemicals and, in Whelan's case, hover over it all like the eyes of T. J. Eckleburg.

She never told Whelan about Eames' plans in the end. Never told any of them. For all her resolve, for all her conviction, absolution, and loyalty to the team, she can't get past Eames' quirks—the way he smirks when he's about to get his way, the way he can keep his humor in the middle of a crisis, the way he teases relentlessly without being unkind—and she knows he was right when he told her she'd miss him in the end. Hope, she's realized, is gruesomely irrational and relentlessly cruel. And hers is still fixed on him.

"We're ready," Arthur says as he rolls up the sleeve of Saito's nightshirt and plants an IV line into his arm.

The others take their places in the ring of chairs, and Ariadne settles into the spot between Cobb and Arthur. She's careful not to meet either's eyes. It will be easier, she thinks, once the job is underway and they're only actors in a play they've preformed a thousand times before. For now things are too real and too close.

"I'm sure I don't need to remind you that your actions here echo in your eternities," Whelan says as they puncture their skin and get comfortable in their seats. "This is a gift, really; this is the summit of everything you have ever hoped and worked and dreamed for. I'm sure you think of me as a tyrant and a monster, but this is your chance to prove yourselves as gods of your art. Make me proud."

"Three," Arthur says, finger hovering over the PASIV. "Two. One."

Ariadne feels his hand grab hers in the instant before the plunge.


	28. Chapter 28

_A very long delay for a very short chapter. So sorry, hopefully the next one will have a bit more substance._

_~M._

Ariadne curls her toes inside her shoes and wills the red sedan to manifest in the rain. She's pretty sure the projections going about their lives are the same ones that she saw the first time they ran this job, but it's hard to remember after the number of times she's stood under this overhang and counted down the seconds to show time. The waiting is the worst part.

Cobb and Yusuf arrive on cue, and they make it to the warehouse with perfect timing. Ariadne climbs out of the car and holds her breath as she watches Cobb command Yusuf to get Whelan in the back, while Arthur rounds the taxi and begins to pull Saito's still form from the passenger seat.

The blood spreads across his chest in a near perfect replication of the last shooting.

She can almost feel the relief saturating the air.

They argue the same arguments they've had a thousand times before—for continuity's sake—before carrying Saito upstairs. The others head off to their pretend interrogation of Whelan, while Ariadne hovers close the body.

It was hard enough to watch him writhe in pain the first time around. Knowing it's partially her fault that he's in this state—dream or not—makes her sick.

He wraps his fist around her sleeve and gasps her name.

It's the first time he's ever done that.

She tells him to try not to speak.

It feels like centuries before they finally head down to the van.

* * *

"We can talk now, if we're careful," Arthur says, his tone soft and light in the hotel lobby. "How are you doing?"

Ariadne smoothes her hands over her pencil skirt and double-checks the pattern on the couch upholstery. "He said my name, back in the warehouse. He didn't do that before."

"That probably doesn't mean anything."

Ariadne watches his hands ball into fists.

"How did things go on your end?" she asks.

"Whelan is playing his part well, it almost makes it seem like we've been successful so far."

"Until you remember why we'e doing this job."

"Exactly."

Eames' blond haired projection walks past with a glance in their direction.

"So far so good," Ariadne murmurs.

She makes the mistake of glancing at Arthur, and even though this is only a dream, she can't fight the way her stomach summersaults when her eyes trace his profile.

The room shivers around them and Arthur turns his head to meet her gaze. "I think it's about time that I kiss you. Just in case it does put the projections at ease."

"It is worth a shot," Ariadne says just before their lips touch.

It's too quick, and Arthur says, "Time to go," at the end of it.

They set the bombs Arthur will have to retrieve again later and regroup in 528. Ariadne slips into her seat and catches Eames' gaze. The forger winks and her stomach drops. She prays in the seconds before they go under that they will all make it through the repercussions of the next level.

Arthur brushes his fingers over her hand on his way to press the plunger.

* * *

She's standing in the foyer of Whelan's house, watching Cobb and Saito twist circles as they try to determine where they are.

"What's going on?" Saito asks finally.

"I'm not sure," Cobb says, giving Ariadne a hard look that says he remembers this place, and he doesn't know how the hell it could end up here.

She starts to respond, but there's muffled shouting over her head, and she stops to listen to it.

"What the hell is this?" Whelan demands, just before Anise says, "I'm done with this!"

"This is Eames' addition to his level," Ariadne says, before turning to Cobb. "We have to tell Saito what's happening."

"No," Cobb says, though his eyes dart quickly to Saito and even more quickly away.

"It's too late to try to patch things up now."

Saito starts to ask a question, but he only gets a few words out before he's doubled over, coughing blood onto the wood floor.

"Saito," Ariadne says as a shot rings out in the upper room. "You know you're dreaming, but do you remember where you were when you went under?"

"A plane," he gasps.

"That was the first time we worked this job. We did it with Fischer, do you remember? This time Whelan is forcing us to try to get inside your mind. He wants us to incept you and convince you to ally your company with his. That's why we're down here. You're in your hotel room right now, still on your way to come get us, Whelan's goal is that you will wake up without any memory of anything beyond a reoccurring dream of your last visit with us."

Saito's brow drops. He turns to Cobb. "This is the second time you've tried to access my mind without my permission."

"We didn't have a choice," Cobb says as a door bangs open somewhere on the second story.

A moment later Whelan appears on the stairs. He has one hand on the railing and the other curled in Anise's hair, whose bullet wound is still seeping, but who appears very much alive as she struggles against him.

At the bottom Whelan shoves her away from him. She stumbles and lands on the floor at Cobb's feet.

"You should have learned by now never, ever to cross me if your lives mean anything to you at all," Whelan says. "Did you think I would spare some of you simply because we had an agreement before this began? When you fail to hold up your side of things I am loathe to hold up mine."

"They didn't know," Anise gasps, grabbing Cobb's unoffered arm to pull herself to her feet. "I made this entirely on my own, and it was a rather poor attempt, I admit, but none of them knew about it. They don't deserve to be punished for my lapses in judgment."

"If I don't punish all of you, how will any of you learn?" Whelan asks.

"There's nothing to learn; they didn't know!" Anise shouts. "It's my fault the job's botched, don't take this out on them."

Whelan tuts. "You are so very, very loyal to those who are so very unloyal to you. Don't you think that perhaps you should have sorted out your priorities before you got in over your head with this one? I was planning on allowing your death to be quick before. Now I'll make sure Arthur has fun with it, or perhaps I'll simply do you in you myself." He glances at his watch. "How longer until the kick?"

Cobb looks at his wrist. "Thirteen minutes."

"Then the rest of you have thirteen minutes left to live. Enjoy it; your friends on the upper levels won't have nearly so long." He sits down in one of the wingback chairs of his living room and picks up a book.

"I'm sorry," Anise says, patting down her dress and smoothing back her hair until there are no signs of the previous moment's desperation. "I know it was a long shot, but I had to try something."

"It just wouldn't be the same without you screwing us over, would it?" Cobb says, expression stony.

"That wasn't my intent."

"Then apparently you're excellent at it by accident."

Saito coughs again, hard and hacking, and Cobb catches him as his legs give way. The extractor lowers him to the floor and presses his hand to the red splotch that's growing across Saito's chest. "Stay with us, Saito; you can't fall into limbo this time around; there's too much down there for you to remember reality."

Saito gasps, and Ariadne and Anise join him on the floor.

"Eleven minutes," Anise says, a smile plastered to her face. "You can last nine minutes, can't you, mate?"

"You'll come for me." They have to lean close to hear the words. "You'll come for me again, won't you?"

Cobb shakes his head. "I won't need to; you're going to be just fine."

"You are a bad liar, Mr. Cobb."

"I'm not lying."

Saito's heart is still beating when they feel the kick.

* * *

It's perfectly timed, as usual. They wake up in their ring of chairs, pull out their IVs, and Arthur barely has time to ask how things went when the room fills with the sound of a single shot and he crumples to the floor.

Ariadne screams.


	29. Chapter 29

_I'm so sorry for the long delay. I know that, for me anyway, stories that continue after long gaps are never quite as good as they were, but I really want to have the accomplishment of wrapping this one up._

_~M._

Ariadne jerks the IV line from her wrist and drops to the floor beside Arthur's still form. She glances up to watch Whelan turn and put bullets in Cobb's heart and Eames' leg. She tries not to look the place in Arthur's head where a bloody tunnel has been carved through his skull as she presses two fingers to his neck and wills his blood to move beneath them.

"You didn't honestly think you would get away with it," Whelan says somewhere in the background as Ariadne breathes Arthur's name over and over. She pulls her hand away from his still neck and reaches for his wrist instead.

"You couldn't have believed that you would have accomplished anything by undermining me," Whelan's voice has moved closer to the spot where Eames' breathing is coming in harsh gasps.

Arthur's wrist is unmoving under Ariadne's touch. She can't breathe around the stone that's been inserted in her chest. At the edge of her vision she watches Yusuf kneel down beside Cobb.

"My only conclusion, then, is that you have an unusual love for pain." Whelan's voice is light, almost mirthful.

Ariadne holds Arthur's face, willing his eyes to move, to meet her gaze, to blink away he blood that is dribbling into them. A sob works its way around the bolder in her chest and tears itself from her throat.

Whelan takes a breath. "Thankfully, I am more than willing to help you with that." A second shot rings, and the bullet imbeds itself in Eames' other leg.

Ariadne doesn't know what to do now. She wraps her arms around Arthur and tries not to think about the way he feels like deadweight—a term she shudders away from when it flickers through her thoughts—and focuses on trying to take back minutes. She doesn't need very many, just the past five or so. Someone must know how to do that.

Eames' breathing echoes off the walls of the hotel room, and Whelan steps forward and clicks the hammer on his gun. "Beg for your life."

"No."

"Do it," Whelan commands, the muzzle of his gun pressed against Eames' chest.

"You're going to kill me anyway," Eames gasps. "Just get it fucking over with."

The shot silences Eames' breathing altogether.

"What should we do with you?" Whelan's steps take him closer to the bed.

Ariadne's mind shifts to Saito, still asleep under the effects of Yusuf's chemicals. She thinks about just how lucky he is not to be aware.

She wills Arthur to wake up.

"And you two, the chemist and the architect. Are you ready to join your friends?"

Ariadne runs her hand over the smoothness of Arthur's hair and waits for the sound of the gun. Wherever she's going has to be better than where she is now.

Whelan takes several steps and then stops. "Then again, what is a man without power? And how can power be known without witnesses to tell about it?"

She doesn't look up at him. She holds onto Arthur with all her strength and tries not to think about the way her heartbeats are pulling them farther and farther apart.

"I know how much trouble loose ends can cause, but I think you've seen what I'm capable of. Tell Saito when he wakes up that the inception may not have worked, but I still expect him to play nice with Cobol of his own volition."

Yusuf shifts. "What about Cobb's children?"

Ariadne raises her head in time to watch a grin spread across Whelan's features. "I don't know where Cobb hid his family. His children were never in any danger at all. Have a good evening now you two."

He pockets his gun and strolls out of the hotel room.

Yusuf waits until the door clicks shut behind him before reaching for the hotel phone. Ariadne wonders why no one's come to investigate the gunshots, but realizes rooms this nice are probably soundproofed. Yusuf presses three buttons and waits for a moment before saying "We need an ambulance. Room 1529. Hurry."

Then he pulls the IV feeds out of Saito, Cobb, and Eames, and hides the PASIV under the bed. "We should really destroy it," he says. "But there isn't time."

Ariadne nods and licks her lips. "Is Cobb…?"

"No heartbeat."

Ariadne nods again and her thoughts go to Miles taking time off to spend with his family, and how those children have lost both their parents to dream work. She wonders what the rest of their lives will be like.

"Ariadne," Yusuf's voice is soft and he steps around Cobb and Eames to reach her side.

Ariadne doesn't know when she started crying, but the tears are rolling down her cheeks and dripping off her chin like summer rain.

This isn't fair. None of it is fair. Cobb can't be gone, and his kids can't be orphaned, and Athur—

Her tears work their way up to sobs.

She doesn't know what she's supposed to do without him.

Saito begins to shift on the bed at the same time the police and EMTs arrive on scene. The EMTs check the bodies while the police ask questions about what the hell happened.

They take down Welan's name with skepticism clear beneath their calm. There's a commotion as the man crouched next to Eames' body says he's found a thready heartbeat. They load the forger on a gurney and rush him from the room.

When they ask Ariadne to step away from Arthur she almost screams at them. Yusuf wraps his hands around her upper arms and half pulls, half guides her to her feet before wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

She leans into him, into the respite from reality that the weight of his arm offers her.

Neither Cobb nor Arthur had ID on them Ariadne discovers when the police start asking for the identities of the men on the floor.

She also discovers just how little she knows about them. No birthdates, ages, next of kin—does a father in law count? Would it be smart to mention Miles?—or home addresses. She finally knows Arthur's last name, but she knows better than to give that away.

Ariadne feels eyes on her and looks around to where Saito standing by the edge of his bed, still dressed in his pajamas, as several officers run through a list of questions for him.

"Tell us how it happened." One of the cops pulls Ariadne's focus back.

"We're here as part of the travel conference," Yusuf says without hesitation. "We were meeting up here before going downstairs, and that's when Whelan came in. He didn't break the lock; I think he had a key."

"Why would he do this, and why"—the officer turns to Saito—"were you asleep when we came in?"

Ariadne feels Yusuf tense, and she realizes that Saito holds their lives in his hands. Any mention of dream work and they'll be tossed in prison.

Even dressed for bed Saito has a commanding presence. They all wait for his next words.

"I was taking a rest to stave off some of the jetlag. I told the others they could meet in here as long as they were quiet. As to Whelan, I don't know him well, but I do know that he's an unstable man. My company recently attained a position that poses a threat to his, and I have no doubt he was here to kill me."

The cops look less than reassured. The inquiry continues. "So why do you think you're still alive?"

"Good friends, perhaps. I don't know for sure. Now, if you don't mind, I would like to get dressed."

"This is a crime scene," the cop says. "You can't disturb anything until we have things processed. The three of you are free to leave, but stay in the city. I'm sure we'll have more questions for you."

"We have clothes in our room," Yusuf tells Saito as he steers Ariadne toward the door.

As they walk from the room Ariadne can feel the adrenaline drain from her system until all that's left is loss. She works hard not to think of the name of the man with the bullet in his brain.

They stop in front of their room, and a sense of warning shoots through Ariadne's mind. "What if Whelan's still here?"

Yusuf pauses, keycard in hand, and looks at her. "There's no reason for him to come back here. He's probably on his way to the airport."

"But what if he isn't?"

"He didn't kill us once, there's a good chance he might not again."

"How are you so calm about all of this?"

Yusuf slides his arm off her shoulders. "Panicking won't help anything."

"They're dead, Yusuf. Cobb and"—she takes a breath—"Cobb and Arthur are dead. What are we supposed to do now?"

Yusuf slides his key through the lock and the light on the panel blinks green. He opens the door. The room behind it is dark. Yusuf clicks on the light by the door and Ariadne starts up the stairs to check on Whelan's room, because she'd rather face him than not know he was still here. There's no light filtering through his room, and when she flicks the light switch there's no sign of anyone.

It almost disappoints her, because thinking he might be here somewhere was one more thing to distract from the agony that keeps her from being able to take a full breath.

She moves back into the hall.

"I'm going to lie down," she says half way down the stairs. Yusuf and Saito look up from Cobb's suitcase at her.

Yusuf nods, and Ariadne heads back up the stairs.

She locks Whelan's door behind her, pulls back the sheets, and watches the reel of scenes and images of the last person to use this bed play in her mind's eye. She climbs in, pulls her knees up to her chin, and sobs herself to sleep.


	30. Chapter 30

_I thought this was going to be the last chapter, but there's going to be at least one more. So much for ending on a nice, round chapter number._

_~M._

It's one month before Ariadne caves.

She's been living in a motel room on the money she found stuffed in the side pocket of her book bag; one more gift from the man who can't seem to stop taking care of her, regardless of the circumstances. Yusuf left the country the moment he could, and Saito had offered her a plane trip to anywhere she wanted—gracious for a man who had nearly been incepted—and she had thanked him and said she'd wait in Chicago to see if the murders would be thoroughly investigated.

That isn't why she's staying, but she's not willing to admit it.

She's doing…not 'well' by any means, not even 'decent,' but she's surviving. The tears are coming less often and the dreams that wake her shaking and sweating in the middle of the night are beginning to taper off.

But she's tired of being alone, and she hates that her longest conversations these days are with the cashiers at the grocery store.

She stands outside Sunny View Nursing Home and tightens her grip on her messenger bag before stepping through the door. Half way to the desk she realizes she doesn't even know what to call him.

"I'm here to see Mr. Eames," she says, and hopes there's not more than one Eames in the home.

The nurse smiles. "I'm glad he's got someone to check in on him. Come on, I'll show you the way."

Ariadne follows her up the stairs and down a hall to a room with two plaques on the door, one sketched with 'David Eames.' She wonders if that's his real name.

Inside the room there's a man asleep in his bed, a curtain on his far side. "Just past there," the nurse whispers, pointing to the curtain.

"Thanks," Ariadne says. She takes a breath before walking to the far side of the room.

Eames is propped up in bed watching the TV on mute. His gaze shifts to her and, for a moment, he just stares. Then he licks his lips. "Hello Ariadne."

"Hello," she says. She has so much more to say to him, but he's lost weight and his eyes are hollow pits in his face and she sees in him what she sees in herself when she looks in the mirror.

"There's a chair," Eames says, gesturing to it.

Ariadne scoots it over to his bed and sits down.

"How have you been?" he asks gently.

"Arthur's dead and you're not," she says without looking at him. As long as she doesn't look she can voice all of the feelings that have been crawling around inside of her.

"I'm sorry for that. You have no idea how sorry."

"Do you think that changes anything?"

"Of course not. I can't change the past, much as I wish I could."

She allows herself to glance at him. Eames is looking at his hands twisted together in his lap. He is a wounded child with an old man's eyes.

"Why did you come, Ariadne?"

Ariadne looks up at the little holes in the ceiling tiles. Then she looks back to where Eames has raised his gaze to meet hers. "I missed you. You said I would. Everything went to hell and I needed you there with your sarcasm and your smirk. I can't seem to get it into my head that you're the bad guy."

"I've missed you, too. It's been a difficult recovery without having anyone to talk to."

"Life must be so hard for you."

"I'm not saying I don't deserve it, I'm just telling you how it's been. I miss the others, too—Arthur and Cobb. It's hard not to believe that they're just hiding out somewhere. It makes sense after the botched job."

"I was there," Ariadne says. "They're gone."

"I know. It's just hard to think about."

"Whelan said that he never had men watching Cobb's children. There was no reason for you to work for him."

It's Eames' turn to look up at the ceiling. "Things would have been different if I had known that sooner.

"At least the kids are safe," he adds as an afterthought.

"Too bad they're orphans."

Eames watches her in silence for a moment. "I made a horrible choice, love. I am responsible for what happened to Arthur and Cobb and there isn't a day that doesn't way heavy on my conscious. But I made the best decision that I could with the information that I had, and if I had to do it over, believing that Cobb's children were in danger, I would make the same choice again. And you are fully justified in hating me because of that."

"I don't hate you," Ariadne says quickly, before the truth of it fully solidifies in her mind. "I just wish things had been different."

"So do I. Every damn day."

He sounds earnest, and she's losing her anger. It's so good to see him, to have a conversation with someone who has been through what she's been through on some level, even if that conversation is mostly bitter comments.

She glances over the blanket covering his legs. "How are you doing?"

"Alright. My left lung was punctured, and Whelan managed to hit both my femurs—lucky bastard—but I'm healing up nicely. Might even be able to walk in a month or two. Either that or never, the doctors haven't reached a consensus on that one yet."

"I'm sorry," Ariadne says, and is surprised to find that she is. "When do you get out of here?"

"That depends on when I can find a place to stay with wheelchair access. It's a bit hard to look from in here."

"That's tough."

He grins—an expression she's been dying to see for the past month—and leans forward a bit. "After everything I've gone through that's not too high on my list of worries right now."

They talk until the sun goes down and Ariadne has to ride the bus home in the dark.

* * *

It takes Ariadne less than three weeks to find a first floor apartment that's wheelchair friendly. When she tells Eames about it he seems stunned at first that she would do this for him. Then she offers him her condition.

His eyebrows rise when she explains the concept of them as roommates, and she almost acknowledges the mistake that this idea was and takes it all back. But he smiles at her and says, "If you're good with it I'm good with it," which is helpful, because she's already signed the lease.

* * *

Living with Eames is easy. Granted, he can't pick up after himself and it's hard to know how much help she should expect him to pitch in from his wheelchair, but Ariadne grew up with two brothers; she knows how to deal with slobs.

And he adds so much to her day. He chases away the silent moments and keeps her grounded with his extroversion. It takes effort—she can see that. The weight of what happened with Whelan hangs over both of them, but having him around makes the press of it so much easier to bear.

Eames gets a cane about the time Ariadne enrolls in a local college with a decent architecture program that will accept her credits from Paris. They celebrate with dinner and drinks. It's the best evening Ariadne has had in a long time, and as she settles into her seat on the bus, she thinks that maybe, if she's lucky, things are slowly starting to get better.

Eames asks her what she thinks of the architecture flashing by outside her window, and Ariadne points out some of her favorite pieces.

At the house she holds her leftovers and her purse—she's finally ended the need to carry her book bag around everywhere she goes—in one hand and digs around for her keys with the other. She finds them and leads the way into the darkened apartment.

The shadow of a person standing by the television set makes her pulse thunder in her ears.

The figure turns, but she already knows from the hair and the build and the posture.

Arthur smiles at her in the gloom.


	31. Chapter 31

_This story keeps growing; this is now the second to last chapter. Hope you enjoy it!_

_Note: Edited, because it's been a while since I last saw the movie and an anon pointed out a glaring error._

_~M._

Arthur looks a little frayed around the edges, but he stands tall in whatever strange dream Ariadne has found herself.

"What the bloody hell?" Eames demands.

"Shut the door behind you, Eames," Arthur says.

"How the hell are you still alive?" Eames asks even as he follows Arthur's instruction.

Ariadne stares. She's had this dream before; the one where Arthur is alive. The one where her fingers and the EMT's experience were wrong and the limp body she had held on the floor in that hotel room had housed a still-beating heart. These dreams always end one of two ways; either Arthur is killed again or her subconscious rolls all of the looks and touches he's ever given her together into one perfect experience that leaves her crumbling when she wakes up.

"Ariadne." Her name is beautiful on his lips, and she shivers at the sound of it.

Her totem is somewhere in her bedroom. She walks past both of them to get to it.

It's not on her dresser or her night stand or in any of the pockets of her jeans. She finally finds the bishop snuggled up against the wall under her bed. She slithers on her stomach to get to it.

There's a mound of clothes and knickknacks on her dresser, but she clears a spot and tips her totem over.

It falls just like it should.

She rights it and flicks it again. Once again it lands with a small clack that marks the reality of the situation.

She tips it again, four more times, and each time she knows that it is wrong. That it has to be.

Her fist closes around it as she heads back to the living room, where Eames and Arthur don't appear to have moved—one more proof of the dreamworld.

"What happened to my totem?" she demands.

"This is reality, Ariadne," Arthur says. "The memory that you have isn't real."

Ariadne shakes her head. "I was there. It was real. You're dead."

Arthur takes off his coat and drapes it over the back of the sofa beside him. "Think back; you know how you got here. How often do you dream about what happened and know that it's all a dream?"

_Never_, Ariadne's mind fills in for her. It always feels so real, which makes the waking that much more painful.

There's one small part of her brain that can't help it. It watched her totem tip, knows exactly how she came to be standing in this room, understands the significance of lucid dreaming, and it wants so badly to believe.

"Tell me how you're alive," she commands, sitting down on the blue and green sofa.

"I'll put the kettle on," Eames says in a controlled voice as Arthur perches at the other end of the couch.

"They had been planning it since Whelan told us we'd be incepting Saito," Arthur begins."Yusuf got his compound to the point where they could use it as an excuse to practice. It was him, Dom, and Nash in the beginning—Nash because it was either him or Eames, and Dom always tries to pick the lesser of two evils."

"I would have been a better choice than Nash," Eames says, dragging one of the kitchen chairs into the living room.

Ariadne doesn't know how he can go along with this so easily. It's another point for her dream theory.

"Based on bast evidence I hardly have any reason to believe you're trustworthy," Arthur shoots back.

"What about all the times I could have sold you out but didn't?"

Ariadne shifts in her seat and looks from one man to the other. "Can we argue after I know what happened, please?"

Arthur gives her a smile—real and wonderful, and for a second she forgets that it doesn't matter because he's cold in the ground right now—and continues. "I knew something was going on, but I couldn't get any of them to tell me what they were working on. Not until they had it all sorted out.

"Cobb woke me up in the middle of the night six days before we did the job and we went downstairs to where Nash and Yusuf were waiting for us with the PASIV all set up. We plugged in and went under. The dreamscape was a perfect replica of our conference room in Caracas.

"I asked what they were doing building from memory, and Yusuf said he needed to get as much practice in a possible before the job. He told me he'd need to build the plane we'd be flying on, the room we'd be staying in, and Saito's suite."

The kettle in the kitchen whistles and Eames rises stiffly. "What kind of tea do you two want?"

"Anything," Arthur says at the same time Ariadne says "ginger peach."

Eames nods. "Speak up, Arthur; I want to be able to hear you in the kitchen."

Arthur obliges. "The plan was idiotic. We all knew you were going to try something, Eames, so their idea was to use the confusion of your tactics going to hell to keep people from noticing that we'd only go up one dream level when the kick came. Yusuf would switch the city dreamscape to a copy of the hotel, and we'd let Whelan exact his revenge and head back to his plane, waking up in his cabin with the belief that he had just fallen asleep after takeoff. If he really believed that he had carried out whatever punishment he saw fit then we could stay off the grid and he would have no idea his retribution had only happened in his mind.

"I told them there was no way any of it would work. We'd need bribe the flight crew, replicate whatever bloodbath Whelan would execute, and keep everyone sedated while we wheeled them to wherever they were supposed to be—in Whelan's case that meant getting him from the hotel to a taxi to the plane."

Eames calls Ariadne, and she steps into the kitchen where he points out which mug is hers and which is Arthur's. He picks up the third one and hobbles back to his seat. Ariadne grabs the cups and returns to the living room. She holds out Arthur's mug to him, and his fingers brush hers as he takes it. Little veins of electricity shoot up her arm.

"Thank you," he says as she takes her seat.

She nods and says, "Keep going."

"It was moronic, but it was the only plan that we had," he continues. "So that's what we went with. Whenever he got time to dream away from the rest of you Yusuf practiced recreating memories, and the rest of the time he spent working on making a compound that would let us go three dreams deep without falling into limbo—something we had to keep Whelan from knowing about since that was a vital part of Saito's job. Cobb and I worked on logistics, although there wasn't much to go on. We knew that Whelan was always armed, and we assumed that he would shoot me in his anger, which meant, if Yusuf could get his compound right, that I'd come back to reality and get things into position, things like moving bodies and making bribes without money.

"That's where Saito came in. You probably remember when we got to the hotel room with Whelan I took off for one of the bedrooms and Cobb followed me." He laughs, and Ariadne waits to hear what's so funny. "We were sixteen stories up and we snuck out the window on to the balcony below. Cobb managed to pick the lock and we went to Saito and told him what was going on and what we needed from him. He wasn't pleased, but he was reasonable. He offered us bribe money that was far more than enough to win over Whelan's flight staff, and we called around until we could get a number to get a hold of them with the offer.

"They took it, obviously."

"Obviously," Ariadne repeated, though there was more sarcasm than seriousness in her voice. "Now tell me what actually happened."

"You experienced it, or the dream side of it, anyway. Yusuf transitioned that first level perfectly, and I was shot so quickly I don't remember much of it at all. It was a surprise when Dom woke up right after me, but everything else seemed to be going right on schedule. We had agreed to wait five minutes in real time before waking Yusuf up to see where the dream had progressed and what we needed to do. Yusuf had already mixed a sedative into the somnacin he gave the rest of you to make things easier.

"Yusuf told us that you and Saito were nicely asleep in our hotel room, and Whelan was off to the airport. The one hitch was Eames."

"Because I didn't die," Eames says, understanding solid in his voice, along with something darker that Ariadne can't think of a name for,

"You need to elaborate a little bit," she says.

"He was shot three times," Arthur says. "That's not something you can fake. So we used Whelan's wheelchair to get you and Saito to our hotel room, wheeled Whelan into a taxi—prepaying the driver and saying that our dear friend had a bit too much excitement but was meeting his flight crew at the airport—and shot Eames with the gun I lifted from Whelan. We're hoping he thinks he left it in Saito's room."

"What the bloody fucking hell is wrong with you?" Eames demands. "Do you know what recovery's been like? I may never walk properly again!"

"Consider it a gift," Arthur says calmly. "If everything had gone according to Whelan's original plan I would have killed you."

Eames tries to jump to his feet, but the movements are slow and awkward. He stands there for a moment, looking at Arthur, before slowly sitting down.

"So when I woke up in our hotel room after everything had happened I was waking up for real." Ariadne waits for Arthur's nod before continuing. "But what about everything after? They buried you and Cobb, I was there. And there's a whole police investigation and everything."

"They were closed caskets. All it took was a bit of bribery—Saito's money, once again—at the morgue to get two unidentified bodies rebranded as Cobb and I. As for the investigation, there's a reason the police haven't called you back. If you look at the report for that night it shows one shooting and no witnesses."

"That explains why the cops looked so confused by my testimony after I got out of intensive care," Eames says. It could be a joke, or the hint of a joke, but he says the words mirthlessly.

"So maybe this is all true," Ariadne says. "But why didn't you tell me? Why did I have to think you were dead for months before you show up like you've gotten bored with life and want to try something new?"

Arthur reaches a hand toward her before wrapping it tightly around his mug. "You were the lynchpin. Whelan would kill me, we assumed, which meant he had to get an appropriate reaction or he would know something was up. I'm so sorry that we had to use you."

"So I was just for show?"

"I wouldn't put it as crassly as that, but that was the idea."

_Stupid_, Ariadne thinks. _So fucking stupid_. "What about after?"

"Cobb and I both had to wait to make sure Whelan didn't have people watching the team or his family. We're not absolutely certain, but we're pretty sure it's safe now."

It hurts in ways Ariadne never expected a dead man to hurt her. She forces her mind off the subject. "Why didn't you just kill Whelan?"

"We're not murderers."

"You almost killed me!" Eames shouts.

"Almost," Arthur says lightly, but Ariadne catches the way he doesn't meet Eames' eyes.

The thoughts in her head are so loud she's surprised the others aren't complaining about them. She stands and goes to deposit her half-full mug in the kitchen sink. She returns to the room with her arms crossed over her chest—a small step removed from wrapping them tightly around her body.

"I'm going to go to bed," she says, looking from Eames to Arthur and back again. "Are you alright?"

Eames nods. "I think Arthur and I have a bit more to talk about before I call it a night."

"Get some sleep," she tells him.

She glances at Arthur one last time as she leaves the room. He meets her gaze, his expression smooth.

In her room Ariadne turns her back to her bed, stiffens her muscles, and drops backwards. She lands with a bounce and the knowledge that that should have been enough of a drop to act as a kick. She changes in to her pajamas, goes to brush her teeth, and crawls under her covers. Her thoughts haven't quieted any, and she wishes she could go for a walk. She almost considers it, but her neighborhood isn't exactly safe after the sun goes down, and she's not sure it would help anything anyway.

She drifts off to the faint sound of Arthur and Eames talking on the other side of the wall.


	32. Chapter 32

_This is the last chapter. It's been a privilege writing for you guys and I hope you've enjoyed the trip as much as I have. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this story—what you liked, what you didn't like, and what I can improve on. Thanks so much!_

_~M._

Arthur is curled up on the couch when Ariadne gives up on sleeping sometime in the early morning. She can see him in the streetlights that filter in through the cracked venetian blinds covering the front window. His suit jacket is draped over him and Ariadne feels a twinge of guilt for not thinking to offer him a blanket.

She tiptoes past him into the kitchen, where one poorly planned step makes the floor creak. She knows before she turns that he's looking at her. His eyes are back in the mottled light.

"Couldn't sleep?" Arthur guesses, sitting up. His shirt is wrinkled and he rubs a hand over his face.

"No," Ariadne says. "Don't you have somewhere to stay?"

"I'm at the Sofitel, but it's on the other side of town and it was late by the time Eames and I got through with our talk. He said I could stay here, but if it bothers you I can go."

He's already getting up when she walks over to him. His expression is closed off as she steps into his space and puts her mouth on his. He doesn't react at first, and Ariadne lifts her hands up to cradle his head, pulling it down to give her a better angle.

She means it to be a quick kiss, but the instant his lips start to move against hers Ariadne opens her mouth, as if she can make up for three months of pain with one perfect moment.

He pulls her down with him until he's lying on his back on the couch and she's on her side pressed into the nonexistent space between him and the back of the sofa. The kiss breaks on their way down, but it gives them both a second to breathe.

He runs a finger along the edge of her ear. "I thought you and Eames were…"

"No," she says, "Not like that."

There's hope hiding behind his eyes.

It doesn't feel right after what he did, but it does feel good, so she pushes the emotions down and focuses on the sensations of being so close to him.

That's how Eames finds them.

"Long night?" He asks as he walks past them into the kitchen. His voice is formal, and Ariadne guesses it takes more than one night to forgive someone for shooting you, even if it's sort of your fault they ended up in that situation in the first place.

She drags herself off the couch and follows him into the kitchen. "I was going to make coffee."

"I can tell you really got far on it." Eames ducks his head out of the kitchen at the same time Ariadne hears Arthur say, "Can I help with anything?"

"You can sit down and stay out of the way," Eames says, moving to the fridge and grabbing the carton of eggs, a bell pepper, and an onion.

Ariadne finishes setting up the coffee maker and turns it on before grabbing a cutting board, knife, and the vegetables Eames pulled from the fridge.

"So," Eames says, reaching for a skillet and a large bowl. "Have you two kissed and made up?"

Eames' voice is too loud. There's no way Arthur can't hear him from the living room.

Maybe that's the point.

Ariadne doesn't say anything as she slices, partially because she doesn't want to talk to him with Arthur listening in, and partially because she doesn't know.

Eames begins to hum a song she doesn't recognize and the sound of her knife on the cutting board accents the rhythm.

His cane hangs from the edge of the counter between them.

* * *

Breakfast is awkward. The tension between Eames and Arthur is palpable, and Ariadne pushes food around her plate and refills her coffee mug twice.

Afterward Arthur—proper, exacting Arthur—doesn't seem to know when he's overstayed his welcome. He lingers, offering to help with dishes and wandering around the living room looking at things when his offer is refused by Eames. Finally, he turns to Ariadne and offers to take her out for coffee.

They don't say much on the walk to the coffee shop on the corner. Ariadne orders a raspberry mocha and Arthur gets an Americano. The shop is crowded, but they manage to find a table in a corner.

"Tell me what you're thinking," Arthur prompts.

She takes a deep breath and stares down at her cup. "I don't know. You lied to me. You lied to me for three months, and it wasn't a white lie either. Do you know what it's like to think someone you…to think someone is dead?"

Arthur runs a hand over his hair. "I was close to Mal and she died, but I know it's not at all the same. If there had been another way I would have taken it, but Cobb and Yusuf's plan was the only option we had."

She's had this sort of conversation before, except with Eames. The story of people backed into corners making decisions that hurt her.

They make uncomfortable small talk as they finish their drinks.

* * *

Ariadne doesn't know what possesses her to take up his offer to visit his hotel room that night. He followed her around as she went about her day and at the end of it he invited her over.

It's easier to talk with actions than it is with words, so when Arthur closes the door Ariadne brushes her lips against his.

Arthur spins them around, pressing Ariadne's back to the door as he kisses her like they're running out of time. He dips his head to plant kisses and nips in the contours of her neck—gestures that make her shiver—before pulling back.

He doesn't speak until he's caught her gaze. "I've missed you so damn much and I am so sorry for everything I put you through."

She kisses him again to make him stop talking. Pulls him toward the bed to overwhelm the thoughts and apprehensions that won't sit quiet inside her mind.

His hands move everywhere, starting gently but growing more instant as she returns the touch. His eyes have taken on a look of adoration and she won't meet them because she's not ready to see that in his face again. Not after everything.

Their clothes are almost gone when he pulls away from her.

"What?" she demands.

"You won't look at me."

"So?"

"I don't want this to be something that we do just because it's something that we did. I love you, and I don't want to go any further until you're at least comfortable with that. If we don't get to that point because of what I've done then I understand and I'm sorry."

He's sitting in the middle of the bed in boxer shorts, his watch, and a look of calm sincerity, and Ariadne's the one feeling under dressed. She had expected, logically, that three months and faking his own death would change him in some way, but she could have predicted he'd pull away if she'd been thinking about it, because that's how he is; never does things in part, never lets things go half-assed.

She watches him waiting patiently for her response and she realized that, as much as she wishes it weren't true for the sake of her anger, he's the same exact man she fell in love with, and she will love him until the stars come down.

She climbs into his lap and kisses him. It starts slow and simple, and escalates until they're back to where they left off.

* * *

In the morning she goes to talk with Eames.

"I take it our long lost lovers are back together again," he says as she steps through the door, looking up from the laundry he's folding on the couch. "Thank god it was such a minor inconvenience that he lied to you for months."

"It was wrong and he knows that," the tells him. "I wasn't happy about it—trust me—but it's Arthur, and he's alive."

"And you went running back to him like a love-sick puppy."

Ariadne rounds the couch until they're standing face to face. "It's my choice, Eames, and it's not like he's the only one who deceived me, who deceived the whole damn team."

Eames folds the shirt in his hands and reaches for another. "I know, love, I know."

She picks up a pair of sweatpants. The two of them fold in silence for a few minutes.

"So what happens now?" Eames asks.

"We have to get out of the country. Arthur's already changed his name and papers, but it would be safer if we left." She slowly turns to him. "You could come with us if you wanted to. We could find somewhere to hide out and keep working." As she says it she wonders if Arthur would ever consider working with Eames again.

"I'm not thick headed enough to go back to dream work after everything, Ariadne."

"How can you avoid it?" She's already feeling the pull of the dream world. She was feeling it within one month of everything going to hell, and it's only gotten worse.

He shrugs and looks away. "I'll forgive him, eventually," he says quietly. "I'm just not there yet. Maybe I'll join you then. Not for work, though, just to get out of the country for a while."

"That would be good."

"Where's Cobb?"

"Meeting his in-laws and kids in Italy."

Eames nods. "I can't imagine what that mind trip must be like for them."

"At least the kids get a dad."

"Very true."

They finish with the pile of laundry and transfer it back into the laundry basket. Ariadne grabs the basket and carries it to Eames' room before he can protest.

She's going to miss this easy domesticity that she has with him. If it was anyone but Arthur she was switching lives for it wouldn't be worth it.

Eames smiles at her, and she catches a sliver of sadness in his features.

* * *

The silver briefcase looks smooth and professional, even seated on the corner of the bed. Ariadne's heartbeat speeds when she sees it.

"Do you miss it?" Arthur asks her.

It's seventeen hours and counting until they catch a plane to Bangkok. Ariadne has one bag resting by the door of his hotel room. In three months she hasn't accumulated much.

"Yes."

He unwinds the tubing, and they place the needles in their arms and lie back on the bed.

She builds some of the skylines she's been dreaming about since the last job. It's cathartic to watch them rise out of nothing at her wish.

"I'm staying with you," he tells her, balanced on the impossibly narrow bridge she built over a sea of dark water. "No more lies and no more tricks."

She watches him step, one foot solidly in front of the other, watches the smooth-sharp lines of his face.

And she believes him.


End file.
